Twenty-Two Short Stories About Port Blacksand
by JaredMilne1982
Summary: A collection of twenty-two vignettes set in Port Blacksand, the City Of Thieves in Titan, the Fighting Fantasy world...
1. An Introduction To Blacksand

No matter how often he looked upon the city of Port Blacksand, Vulpine marvelled at how little it seemed to change over the years. Pirate and slaving ships flying the skull and crossbones still sat in the harbour, rotting tubs filled with scum gathered from the twelve seas of Titan. A grey, gloomy fog still hung over the city, concealing hidden plots and crimes committed in its shadow. The air was filled with a disgusting stench that somehow combined blood, excrement, sea salt, raw fish, and bad ale all at once. The ramshackle buildings and homes were crudely built and ugly to look at, making the viewer feel oppressed and trapped as he walked through the filthy, winding streets. The city wall that ringed the city was badly crumbling and stained with blood and bile from the convicted criminals and felons that hung from cages and nooses on its ramparts, and the trolls and orcs that stood guard at the gates looked hardly better.

Ah, what a joy it was to be home!


	2. Vulpine And Wraggins

Vulpine easily strolled up to the main gate, waiting in line behind a merchant caravan and some tall, morose fellow dressed in leather armour, no doubt an adventurer. He tapped his foot impatiently as the merchant argued vehemently with the trolls guarding the gate about the validity of the merchant passes he had brought, which supposedly gave him the right to trade in Blacksand. Finally, the two trolls signalled to let the man through, laughing to each other at his frustration.

The adventurer passed through easily afterwards, simply tossing a pouch of gold at the trolls who waved him through without so much as a glance. Vulpine smiled. Indeed, it was good to be home.

The two trolls examined Vulpine suspiciously, as if trying to remember his face from somewhere. Vulpine merely looked back at them, knowing that Stinkbottom and Foulbreath usually needed a few minutes to put together any sort of coherent thought. He brushed his fingers over the dagger concealed in his belt, just to ease his patience.

"We knows youse…don't we?" Foulbreath asked Vulpine as much as his partner Stinkbottom. The troll certainly lived up to his name.

"You…youse a t'ief, ain't ya?" Stinkbottom said slowly. "Yeah…youse da t'ief what robbed dat rich guy in Fang!"

"Honestly, gentlemen," Vulpine said smoothly. "If I were a thief, would I be so foolish as to try to pass through the main gates in broad daylight, in front of some of the City Guard?"

The two troll guards looked at one another for a moment.

"Hell no! But youse got a merchant pass? Youse can't enter widdout no pass."

Vulpine calmly held up the woven cloth badge marked with the heraldry of a dragon blowing wind into the sails of a pirate ship. The symbolism of Lord Azzur, ruler of the city of Port Blacksand allowed the holder access to the city. It apparently didn't occur to the trolls that such a pass could be easily stolen by a thief.

"It's legit-tuh…it's legit…it's good!" Stinkbottom proclaimed. "Let 'im through!"

Vulpine passed through easily, turning left and marching down Key Street, before stopping in front of a small shop, marked with the sign _J.B. Wraggins, Keymaker and Locksmith. _As he moved to open the door, it flew open before him as a slim young woman rushed out, paying Vulpine no heed. Looking at her for a moment, Vulpine shrugged his shoulders and walked into the shop.

The grinding of metal on metal greeted Vulpine as he walked in. The shelves were marked with all sorts of locks and keys, as well as mechanisms for poisoned needles, exploding locks, and other traps, which proved quite useful in a city like Blacksand. At the far end of the shop was a shaven, blond-haired dwarf sitting behind a key-cutting machine, carving out a long, slender pick. He smiled as Vulpine greeted him.

"Back so soon, eh?" J.B. Wraggins asked his customer. "I would have thought you to be gone longer than a mere fortnight! Was your tour of Fang profitable?"

"See for yourself. This will be your payment," Vulpine grinned, as he dropped some tiny diamonds on the table in front of Wraggins. The dwarf quickly examined the gems with his magnifying glass, smiling as he saw their fine cut and polish. "I must say," Vulpine continued, "your picks have proved their worth once again. I had a bet running with Rannik that the tools he got from Ellechin would get him more wealth! I dare say that I'll have won our little wager!"

"Excellent!" Wraggins exclaimed in victory. He hated his rival locksmith, especially given that Ellechin and Nicodemus were the ones that exposed him to begin with…the dwarf's face reddened with anger, causing his machine to grind and squeal as he stepped down hard on the pedal.

"Come now, Wraggins! Bitter memories about Silverton again, eh?" Vulpine teased. The dwarf merely scowled back. "Fear not, my friend," Vulpine continued. "I will be recommending your tools to all the men in my gang. You'll do so much business, Ellechin will be sick with envy."

Wraggins merely smiled back.


	3. The Jumping Fish Tavern

The young woman running out of Wraggins' shop slowed her pace, walking more slowly as she made her way to the Street of Temples and turned into Spoon Street, stopping in front of a run-down hovel of a building marked _The Jumping Fish Tavern, _marked with the fanciful sign of a haddock leaping onto an outstretched trident. The woman frowned at the questionable artwork before walking in. Ordering a simple ale, she sat alone at a table and waited, calmly sipping her drink and thinking about what she would say to her contact.

She did not have to wait long, as a wide, stoutly built man with a brown beard came to join her with an ale of his own. He grinned as he sat down. Richly dressed in robes of fine scarlet silk, he seemed very out of place in the ramshackle tavern, surrounded by the thugs, bandits and lowlifes that made up the clientele in most Blacksand taverns.

"I take it he suspects nothing?" the man asked. The woman shook her head.

"The glass substitute replaced the real diamond yesterday. Reddon was such a fool, leaving his key to the display case where anyone could snatch it for a night. I swear by Sindla, that man becomes more senile every year."

"Not senile enough to forget how much he enjoys squeezing your-" the man stopped, before the woman's scowl cut him short. It had not been difficult to convince her to help him with this burglary, the man knew, but she was still proud and sensitive, and he could ill afford to offend her. He nodded, as she took a pouch from her belt and tossed it to him.

"Four hundred gold dragons each," he smiled, referring to Blacksand's currency. "After which, of course, I will happily give Reddon a new smile, one he will never forget," the man answered, drawing his finger across his throat. He then raised his tankard.

"To us, then?" he prompted. The woman smiled and nodded, joining her tankard with his.

"To us," she answered.


	4. Grumbo And Stoat

Two tables down, a tall man dressed in tattered hose and breeches stood up and walked out the door of the tavern, stumbling as he went. The money-pouch at his belt jingled loudly as he walked down the Street of Knives, before a hand appeared from the shadows, dragging him into Cutlass Alley. The tall man fumbled for his sword, but his hand fell limp with pain. The man looked around, struggling to regain his composure.

A short, weasel-faced lad, barely nineteen it seemed, held up a bloody dagger. He pointed to the pouch with his free hand, while holding his knife right in front of the man's eyes.

The tall man looked back in horror, trying to draw his sword with his free hand, before the boy simply stabbed him in the chest. As the man sunk to the ground, the boy cut his purse and ran off, disappearing into the shadows.

The boy stealthily made his way to Sighing Avenue, into a particularly dilapidated part of town that seemed filled with empty homes and deserted shops. Particularly impoverished people dwelled in these buildings, who had little else but the clothes on their backs, and perhaps one or two silver coins if they were lucky that day. The true inhabitants of this neighbourhood could get rid of them if they wanted, but they did not. The people made such a useful front.

The young boy slipped quietly into what appeared to be an abandoned hut near the Riddling Reaver Inn, before moving into the basement and walking over to a bare wall. Tapping three times on the wall with his dagger, the boy waited, as a secret panel seemed to slide open out of nowhere. A warty, scarred face peered out at the boy.

"Back so soon, Rat?" the door guard asked the boy. "You bring back a good haul this time?" The weasel-faced boy scowled, and pointed his dagger square at the door guard. He hated that nickname.

"I told you before, you idiot," the boy hissed. "The name's Stoat."

"Whatever," the door guard answered. "Get in here, will you?"

Stoat accompanied Grumbo, the door guard, down a tunnel that led deeper underneath the city. The two finally stopped at a large hall, entering by one of several tunnels that connected to the place. Songs and arguments greeted them as they walked in, accompanied by the smells of ale, smoking-weed, and blood. The common room for the thieves was lively, as usual, especially since their gang, led by Master Urbin, had just gained a major swathe of territory in the Execution District of the city from the gang of the hated Ironhand, stamping out the rogue Red Star Brotherhood street gang to boot.

Stoat and Grumbo finally dropped their scowls, grinning at each other. There was plenty of lotus dust to go around, and the whores were on their way. The celebrations proved to be very enjoyable.

Later that evening, as they recovered, Stoat and Grumbo rejoined each other at a table at the far end of the hall, reluctantly waving good-bye to their "companions".

"How much you got left?" Grumbo asked, referring to Stoat's last robbery.

"Three dragons," Stoat grumbled. He had spent most of it on drugs and whores, and gambled the rest away in less than an hour. Grumbo laughed. He had won near to forty dragons himself, and was quite pleased with himself. Stoat scowled back at Grumbo.

"You know what that kind of boasting gets you," Stoat warned. "You wanna get your throat cut?"

"It's against guild rules to kill a brother thief," Grumbo reminded him.

Now it was Stoat's turn to laugh.

"You believe that? The guildmasters only enforce that rule when they need to keep us in line. Don't you know how it works in this city? Half the crime is done by thieves, to thieves."

Grumbo looked back at Stoat curiously.

"How do you-" Grumbo started, before he suddenly went stiff, having trouble breathing. Glancing down at his side, he saw Stoat had thrust his dagger into Grumbo's lung.

"I'm one of the folks who does most of his robbing against brother thieves," Stoat said with a grin, as the light faded from Grumbo's eyes. "The guildmasters don't mind when we have a little healthy competition." Stoat looked around, confident that most of the thieves and whores were too drunk or drugged to do anything to stop him. The young thief then peered down a nearby entrance tunnel, seeing a hole that led to the sewers. It was where most of the thieves threw the bodies of their victims, anyway.


	5. The Great Garolon

As Stoat was tossing Grumbo's corpse down the sewers, a fat man dressed in an overcoat was walking down Bridge Street directly above him. The man's eyes were red, indicating that he was a heavy drinker, even as his beard indicated his generally slovenly appearance. He looked like any number of other beggars and homeless men who lived in the city, praying for alms from passers-by as they struggled to stay alive just for another day.

A sharp-eyed observer would have noticed otherwise, as the man casually passed over the SingingBridge, entering into the Garden District, the richest part of the city, where many of the city's wealthiest citizens lived. Passing through Candle Street, Garden Street and eventually coming into Tree Lane, he finally stopped in front of a modest villa beautifully decorated with paintings and murals. In front of the villa was a fancy tent decorated with a number of paintings. Some depicted nautical scenes and sea-battles; others showed adventurers battling dragons and slaying trolls; some even portrayed famous people such as Gereth Yaztromo and the pirate Garius of Halak.

The man strolled past the tent and into the villa as if he owned the place, as indeed he did. The Great Garolon, professional artist and lover of fine wine and women, was finally home after a long journey. He waited briefly, before a young woman emerged from the tent and followed him into the villa, her dark eyes brightening with excitement and joy as she saw him. Eugenie had warned Garolon against taking up the challenge, and she had long feared for the man's life.

"I take it you won, then?" Eugenie asked, as Garolon removed his overcoat to reveal a garish, paint-splattered smock underneath. The artist removed two decanters and a bottle of fine wine from his haversack, pouring himself and Eugenie each a glass, as they relaxed on a couch.

"Would I be here if I hadn't?" Garolon asked with a smirk. He had traveled to the half-legendary city of Vatos in the Desert of Skulls, to participate in a deadly art contest run by the dark priestess Leesha, one of the rulers of the place. The winner received three hundred gold pieces. The losers received the honour of being sacrificed to Leesha's demonic patron. "I should say that my painting of the Three Dark Brothers burning the goddess Throff with their divine fire would have pleased anyone, no matter how fickle."

"Your modesty has not diminished, at least," Eugenie replied caustically. "How was Leesha otherwise?"

"Fair enough," Garolon answered. "Not as good as you, however." Eugenie grinned in reply. "Were you lonely while I was gone?"

"Not so much," Eugenie replied. The two were quite comfortable about keeping their relationship open to others.

"Were there any interesting commissions made for me?" Garolon asked.

"Yes. Several, in fact. Master Torbul, son of Brass, wants you to paint a portrait of him with his new wife."

"How much will he pay?" Garolon asked.

"Fifty," Eugenie said with some disgust. Garolon sneered.

"Fifty! Tell Torbul to come pose when he offers me something more than chicken feed," Garolon snorted. Eugenie nodded.

"Silas Whitebait wanted you to forge a piece for him," Eugenie added. Garolon raised his eyebrows.

"A forgery? I thought the old fish was only involved in raiding other merchants and doing business with chaotics, not art fraud," Garolon said in surprise.

"Whitebait got word that someone's after _The Seven Swords and the Crown. _He wants a decoy to fool the thieves,"Eugenie answered, referring to a famous painting that was one of Whitebait's family heirlooms.

Garolon blinked in surprise. "That's worth four thousand dragons, at least," he noted dryly. "How much is Whitebait offering me for such a risky undertaking? I hardly want anyone in the Guild of Thieves angry at me."

"Five hundred," Eugenie replied. "The painting has a lot of sentimental value for the old fish."

"Well then, he's got a deal. Chances are I'll have my throat slit in a bar fight anyway, if a thief doesn't get to me first," Garolon replied with a smile. "What else is there?"

"Tyreus came and picked up the portrait you made of him going hunting. He paid the four hundred you asked for," Eugenie noted. "Your drinking companion Herrick also paid his twenty dragons for that painting with the centaurs and the dryads…" Eugenie shuddered. "You're quite certain you won't reconsider giving such major discounts to your drinking companions?"

"Yes, I'm quite certain," Garolon said with a smile. He knew how much Eugenie hated the crowd he hung out with. Still, they were a source of quick income, since they usually didn't care how fast he did their paintings for them, or what quality the paintings ended up as.

Eugenie sighed with disgust. Garolon suddenly felt a pang of guilt, and smiled brightly, trying to lift her spirits.

"Come on, I've been away for months! Surely there's something you and I can do together to celebrate my victory and return from Vatos…"

Eugenie merely smiled back.

Yes, it was good to have Garolon back.


	6. The Kobassi Brothers

If Eugenie and Garolon had bothered to look outside their bedroom window during their various pleasurable activities, they would have seen a gold-washed coach driving down Tree Lane, before passing into Garden and then Candle Street. Stopping at a magnificent and opulently decorated mansion, the coach's doors slid open and two men emerged, brothers by the looks of them. The two thin, swarthy men were sinuous and ferret-like, their narrow eyes glinting in the evening sunset.

They wore fabulous coats of ermine and sable, with bejewelled rings adorning their every finger. One of the men casually reached out and punched the footman who had opened the coach door for them, grinning at the marks his blow had left in the man's face. The coachman staggered and bowed, before the scowls of the two rich brothers led him to hastily run to the front of their manor and open the doors for them. The other brother struck the coachman with a rattan-stick as he passed.

Inside, butlers and footmen made haste to fetch the brothers' coats and robes, as they marched into a massive, marbled dining room where a sumptuous banquet of boar, moose and wine awaited them. Their wives and children were ushered in quietly to sit beside their fathers, each family at one end of the table. The women and children ate quietly and meekly, knowing full well the consequences of interrupting their fathers and husbands.

Antonio and Frederke Kobassi were not pleasant men on the best of days. Today, however, their temper was particularly foul. They tore into their meal in silence, their families following suit, until Antonio finally spoke.

"You are quite certain it was the same adventurers, then?" Antonio demanded. Frederke nodded solemnly. "The same ones who slew that wizard Xortan Throg?"

"Yes, it was," Frederke muttered darkly. Antonio, older and wiser, often had to calm his younger and more volatile brother, and force him to see beyond his own views. No one else, however, could carry out one of Antonio's plans better that Frederke. Antonio plotted and schemed, Frederke saw to the execution of their plans. One of their most important drug-smuggling rings had been absolutely ruined by a band of wandering heroes, and Frederke was in a particularly foul mood, given how proud he had been of his budding criminal empire.

"And it was the same ones who worked for Brass's son in finding his father's murderers," Frederke added. "They ruined our operations in Chalice…how ironic that it was King Pindar who brought them all together to begin with!" Frederke was referring to the king of the city-state of Chalice, who had hired a number of adventurers to rescue the kidnapped betrothed of his son the prince.

"They occupy a strange position these days," Antonio remarked, rubbing his chin as he toyed with the remains of his dinner. "They first worked for Chalice in helping Salamonis, but more and more it seems they are opposed to that fair city," he remarked.

"Who wouldn't be?" Frederke asked. "Its advisers and ministers pretend to be helpful, and then they-"

"Yes, yes, I know about all that," Antonio said calmly. "Some of my friends in the Salamonian court told me all about the scene that barbarian made with the royal prince…" Antonio trailed off. He closed his eyes for a moment, pondering.

"Prince Salamon is a braggart and a fool," Antonio reminded Frederke. "His ego knows no bounds, and he thinks that all the world revolves around him,"

"He imagines Asrel, were she a mortal, would be dying to share her bed with him," Frederke noted, referring to the deity of love, most beautiful of goddesses. "I take it, then…?"

"The New Year festivities in Salamonis will be exciting this year," Antonio said calmly. "Perhaps we can convince Prince Salamon to see our point of view concerning those adventurers…"

Frederke grinned slowly.

"And, of course, we should not be in the city during the New Year," Antonio continued. Lord Azzur had one of the strangest habits in celebrating the New Year. He would occasionally execute wealthy Blacksanders and select impoverished folk at random to take their place among Blacksand's elites. The Kobassis were one of the oldest families in Blacksand, but one of Antonio and Frederke's forefathers had lost the family fortune by being executed and his riches donated to a poor family. The Kobassis had lived in poverty for almost a decade, until Antonio and Frederke's father had regained the family wealth after Azzur had executed the head of the family who he had originally given their wealth to. The new generation of Kobassis had no intention of losing their family riches again to another one of Azzur's twisted acts of "charity".

"Fortunately, we have always been able to persuade Azzur to overlook us." Antonio finished.

"Who will we surrender this year?" Frederke asked.

"I believe Martigan played a bad note during his organ-practice some days ago. He will do nicely," Antonio said coldly, turning his gaze over his eldest son. The son shrank back beneath his father's glare. Azzur was always willing to accept new slaves for his household from wealthy families who had no desire to be on the gallows. It was also a fine way for wealthy families to be rid of incompetent and unworthy children.

Frederke nodded, and called for a scribe to begin drafting the terms of the agreement they would make with Azzur. The scribe was dispatched the next day.


	7. Baraban And Aethra

The scribe and his guards made their way through the Execution District, walking down Gallows Street, paying no attention to the scene unfolding on the same road, as they marched for the Palace Bridge and Lord Azzur's palace.

The scribe's party had passed a potentially explosive confrontation, as several young men, fancily dressed as noble bravos and rakes and wielding long slender swords, stood facing an attractive young woman and the lone older man next to her. The young woman's faced was streaked with the marks of tears, her eyes red and flashing with anger. She too was dressed like a noble, and seemed well-acquainted with the rakes facing her. Her companion was much more demure. He was a short man, dressed all in black, with matching hair and a thick beard, and carrying a large, wide-bladed sword. He stood calmly, with an eager gleam in his eyes. The rakes shrank back beneath his gaze.

The young woman was the first to speak up.

"Are you quite sure you won't apologize, Nerrick?" she asked the leader of the rakes, a wide-shouldered, white-faced young man whose nose was marked with the tell-tale marks of drunkenness. He fingered his sword gingerly, whether out of eagerness or fear none could say.

"Go to hell, Aethra," Nerrick answered. "You didn't have any complaints about my drinking before."

"That was before you touched my-" Aethra spat, her cheeks suddenly flushing with shame. She simply glared at the man, her poisonous stance unnerving the bravo and his friends. "You have offended me, and so under Blacksand law I may select a champion to avenge me. That's why I've employed Baraban," she smiled, indicating the short man standing next to her.

Baraban was barely taller than Aethra, but none of the rakes seemed particularly eager to duel him. Almost everyone who did ended up dead. Aethra's champion remained impassive, his hands twitching lightly. He glanced at his employer calmly.

Nerrick hesitated. He had no desire to fight Baraban, but he feared being branded a coward. Were that to occur, he could never show his face at the Silver Coin tavern again…shaking his head, Nerrick scowled, drew his sword and advanced, as Baraban responded in kind.

Nerrick had some skill with his sword, but Baraban was mesmerizing. The short man's blade, for all its size, seemed to come at him from all angles, and it was all Nerrick could do to deflect it, much less strike back. He finally managed a slash at Baraban's face, but the man seemed to vanish as he struck, and Nerrick stumbled several paces. As he tried to recover, he noticed Baraban standing behind him, looking at him coldly.

How could the man have moved so fast? Nerrick struck at him again, but Baraban easily parried each strike Nerrick launched at him, before swinging his own sword again. Nerrick suddenly screamed, as his sword clattered to the ground. To his horror, he saw that both his severed hands were still attached to the hilt. Baraban suddenly thrust forward, skewering Nerrick and dropping him dead to the ground.

The four other rakes suddenly stared at their dead friend's body in askance, before glaring at Baraban. Shouting in anger, they drew their swords and all attacked Aethra's champion at once. In a matter of minutes, all four were dead beside their friend.

Baraban wiped his sword on their fancy clothes, before pulling a fancy badge of silver from the breast of one of the rakes. He then sheathed his blade, before bowing to Aethra. Without answering, she set off, Baraban following close behind.

The two marched into the Sun and Seven Stars Inn, ordering a private booth and some of the innkeepers' finest wine. The Sun and Seven Stars was one of the few decent places in the Execution District, and they could discuss matters in private here.

Aethra spoke first.

"You are not concerned about legal repercussions?"

"Lady, surely you know my reputation, else you would not have sought my services," Baraban answered. "I duel my victims openly and in public, but always in a way that is legal. And I am not concerned, for I retain no less than Orlpar Rembert himself," Baraban finished calmly, referring to the famous lawyer whose brother headed the Lawyers' Fellowship, Port Blacksand's guild of lawyers.

"Such high costs are no doubt needed to offset the high prices Orlpar charges," Aethra said dryly. "Not to mention the regular costs associated with trials in Blacksand," she continued. Baraban smiled. The City Guard could be 'persuaded' to testify in his favour, and magistrates 'persuaded' to discount evidence brought against him by the prosecutor.

"And thus I require eight hundred dragons," Baraban answered. Aethra frowned, and handed over a bulging coin-purse to her assassin. She took another look at Baraban, before leaving their private room to settle matters with the innkeeper and return home.

Baraban calmly sipped his wine. Aethra had not asked about the silver badge-no doubt she thought he wanted it as a souvenir. It was worth ten or so dragons on its own, but to Ben Borryman the silversmith, it would be worth far more. Borryman knew full well that other young rake had robbed his store, and slain his son in the process, though the young man's family had bribed the magistrates to throw out the murder charges. This badge, marked with the rake's coat of arms and jealously guarded by him, would serve as fine proof that he was dead.

Baraban slew his opponents not only legally, but innocently as well. After all, what man could be guilty of murder when he slew someone who attacked him first?

In the private booth next to Baraban's, a fat dwarf smelling of Skullbuster spirits emerged, before tossing a barmaid several silver coins. He stumbled out into the street, grinning as he met several compatriots in the common room. They had just begun to place their orders, but then the dwarf whispered something to them, and they all laughed.


	8. The Laughing Axeman Inn

As a group, the dwarves left the Sun and Seven Stars and marched down Winding Street before turning into Gibbet Lane, laughing as they marched into the Laughing Axeman Inn, grinning at the sign above that showed a smiling man in an executioner's hood surveying his latest victim, a man who looked suspiciously like the host of the Headless Troll Inn across the way.

The Laughing Axeman was filled not only with the smells of smoke, ale and vomit so common in Blacksand bars, but also a foul musty odour, the smell of rotting and warped wood. The dwarves could guess what had happened. They marched up to the bar calling for Skullbuster, handed to them by a large, bloated troll with a face covered in warts and a mouth missing as many teeth.

Gobbo Donzo, troll owner of the Laughing Axeman Inn, was in a foul mood. He would have to spend some forty gold dragons getting the floors of his best rooms replaced, even as Maxim Vibril, his hated rival and owner of the aptly named Headless Troll Inn, had easily detected the poison in his latest shipment of ale. The Headless Troll had the advantage over the Laughing Axeman in their bitter feud so far this month, but Donzo had plans for a very pleasant vengeance this time…

The huge troll glanced down at the dwarves.

"You all have the rats?" he demanded.

"Aye, that we do," one of the dwarves answered, holding up a box dotted with air holes. Skittering and squeaking sounds emerged from the box, sounds which were nearly drowned out by the laughing bar patrons. "These blokes'll be scramblin' all through Vibril's joint in two days, don't ya doubt!"

"Good," Donzo muttered. Even if Vibril realized how much of an infestation there was this time, it would cost him a small fortune to have all the rats trapped, even more if he called on Pungent and Stark, among the very few reliable exterminators in the city. One hundred gold dragons a room would almost bankrupt Vibril, especially if the rats got into every one of them.

"How are you going to get them in?" Donzo demanded.

"Simple as the day is clear, milord," another dwarf piped up. "Me an' me boyos'll go over there tonight an' knock a few 'eads together. Once we's got old Vibril 'tracted, Otto 'ere'll go in the back window and set them rats loose. Vibril ain't never replaced the lock e'er since the last fire ya started in his kitchen, milord," the dwarf concluded.

Donzo smirked in return. "I suppose you boys will need to get nice and drunk before you go and start trouble, won't you?" he asked with a grin.

"Be soundin' like a plan, yer worship," the dwarf named Otto answered. "None fer me, though. I gotta keep me wits when I lets the rats go in Vibril's kitchen. I'll 'ave a drink with pleasure once I be back, though,"

"Consider it done," Donzo nodded.

By evening, the mob of dwarves were drunk and eager for a brawl, and tore across Gibbet Lane and burst into the Headless Troll. Loud crashes and shouts rang through the night as the dwarf Otto snuck around to the back way of the inn, carrying the box of rats with him, an evil grin on his face. Eager as he was to accomplish his task, Otto did not notice the raven flying above Execution Hill.


	9. Arlob's Emporium

The raven continued over the Catfish River and Palace Square, as well as over Needle Alley in the Merchant District. The raven was more eager on catching its dinner outside the city than paying attention to the ground, and so ignored what was happening in the alley down below.

One of the shops in Needle Alley was marked _Arlob's Emporium, _a squat building of grey stone that was otherwise unremarkable, but for the reputation it carried. It was the one shop in all the city where someone could find anything, from the most priceless relics to the most worthless trash. All sorts of unusual folk made their way to Arlob's place, seeking all sorts of even more unusual items.

Tonight's unusual customer was a strangely painted, white-skinned elf who streaked his otherwise white hair and face with strange patterns of black dye and paint, giving him a bizarre, distorted look, as if all the colour had been drained from him, leaving only the stark differences of black and white. He rummaged through the massive pile of artefacts in Arlob's shop, muttering to himself.

Arlob himself, a small balding man with oddly slanted, almost snake-like eyes, stood back impassively, as he always did. A simple black robe sufficed for his attire, its wearer needing no other rings or pendants to distinguish himself. His eyes gleamed as the elf tossed aside an ebony lantern carved into the shape of an elephant, an ivory beetle charm, a flute made of tin, a map of the city of Ashkyos in Khul, and a number of other strange objects.

The elf finally uttered a cry of satisfaction, emerging with a delicate facemask carved of ebony and inlaid with quartz. The black-and-crystal etchings on the mask gave it an odd aura of distortion and imbalance, much like the elf holding it in his angular hands.

"How much do you want for this mask?" the elf demanded Arlob.

"Twenty-two gold dragons," Arlob replied without hesitation, as if he had just made the price up on the spot.

The elf looked at Arlob strangely.

Arlob looked at the elf calmly.

"Twenty-two gold pieces?" the elf asked ironically.

"Did you not hear me the first time?" Arlob asked ironically.

The elf shook his head, and fished around in his purse, tossing several coins on the counter in front of Arlob.

"Where did you get this?" the elf demanded of Arlob.

"What does it matter to you?" Arlob demanded in return.

They both stood in silence for a moment.

"What will you do with the mask?" Arlob demanded of the elf.

"What does it matter to you?" the elf demanded in return.

They both stood in silence for a moment, before the elf walked out of the shop. He ran through the darkening streets, caring nothing for the dangers of being out so late on the streets of Blacksand. Crossing almost to the other end of the city, the elf came to the Fish Market District, before briefly arguing with the men on guard at the gate. He tossed them each several more gold pieces, after which they opened the gate. The elf disappeared out of the city into the night, carrying the mask with him.


	10. The Silenced Watchman Inn

Two of the guards at the gate looked at the elf with strange expressions on their faces. One of them, a surprisingly tall and thin troll, pointed at the departing elf and made loud expressions and stumbled around like a madman. The other guard, a human clad in black lacquered mail armour with a scar down the right side of his face, laughed out loud. Soon they were hailed by another contingent of the City Guard who approached the Fisher Gate, ready to relieve the guards on duty and take their shift.

The man and troll suddenly relaxed their vigil and stretched their limbs, glad to be off duty. They briefly saluted the men who took their place, before they turned into Dolphin Run and stopped in front of the Silenced Watchman Inn, marching inside for a drink after their shift.

The Silenced Watchman was decidedly more demure and clean than most of the foul hovels in the Harbour District, where the pirates flocked to spend their loot and kill each other before returning to the sea. The inns in the Fish Market District tended to be more occupied by fishermen and dockworkers, who while not averse to brawling and crime, did not actively seek it out as did the pirates.

Boilbelly the troll and Herrick his human companion took their ales, sat down and clanked their tankards together in a toast, before they finished their drinks in one swallow.

"How much did you make today?" Herrick asked.

"Forty dragons," Boilbelly replied with a grin. "I 'persuaded' those fishermen that they didn't want to get me angry and end up having to confiscate their salt. All that fish would spoil without the salt, wouldn't it?"

"Aye, and those poor men would be out of work," Herrick answered calmly. "It's so difficult to make an honest living in this town, isn't it? Why, I only made twenty dragons in 'entrance fees' today," Herrick finished, using the City Guard's term for the bribes people paid them to be allowed into the city.

"Sourbelly could have easily made twice that amount," Boilbelly sighed. He hated being compared to his older brother, but had still followed Sourbelly into the City Guard to shut their teasing father up. Stinkbelly had always loved his older son better anyway…

"Three times that much, even," Herrick teased. Boilbelly snarled at his companion dangerously, slamming down his tankard. Herrick raised his hands in mock surrender, but there was a mocking gleam in his eye. Boilbelly muttered dangerously, fingering his sword.

"Calm down, will you?" Herrick asked. "By Dalgalla, you've a temper on you. Sourbelly would never-" Boilbelly had half-drawn his sword before Herrick offered to buy the next round. The troll sank back into his chair, pulling hard at the new tankard Herrick put down before him.

"Look at it this way," Herrick continued. "You're alive, and Sourbelly isn't. So what do you have to complain about?"

"I'm now the same age as he was when he died," Boilbelly answered, "and I'm still just a damn sergeant. Sourbelly was in the Imperial Elite troop for three years before he got to this age." Boilbelly pulled hard at his tankard again, slurring his speech as he fell deeper into drink. Herrick merely frowned.

"They never found out who did it, did they?" the man asked his troll companion.

"Hell no," Boilbelly answered. "All we know was that the killer had some yellow unicorn in a white sun tattooed on his arm, or something like that. How the hell are you supposed to find someone like that? He got Lieutenant Fatnose too."

"Sounds quite dangerous," Herrick replied. "A pity no one's ever been able to catch him. Imagine catching Sourbelly's killer!"

Boilbelly's eyes lit up. Showing the arm with that damn tattoo on it, and shaking it front of Stinkbelly's bloated face…

"He's probably halfway to Khul, though," Herrick answered. "Dalgalla only knows where he is now." He blinked as Boilbelly pulled on his third tankard, two empty mugs already in front of him. What was his problem?

"Ye're…right…" Boilbelly slurred at Herrick. "I'll cut that gosh-damned arm off myshelf…and shtrangle that bashtard Shtinkbelly wiv it! Teash him ta like Shourbelly better…"

Herrick only sighed. He should have known better than to discuss Sourbelly in front of the late troll's younger brother. Now Boilbelly was going to indulge in some hare-brained scheme to find his brother's killer, just to show their father that he had favoured the wrong son.

_He speaks just as well as his late brother, but he's nowhere near as smart, _Herrick thought dryly, as Boilbelly stumbled out the door of the inn, yelling incoherently to himself. _I'll have to pay for the drinks myself, but this ought to be well-worth the price, _Herrick thought to himself, laughing to himself as he remembered the time Boilbelly had picked a fight with the Captain of the Guard. That had literally been a whipping to remember…

Boilbelly tore out of the Silenced Watchman, ignoring the small shop that stood next door to it. He tore off down Dolphin Run into the distance, and was soon out of sight.


	11. Pungent And Stark

The sun rose next morning on the small shop, which bore a small sign reading _Pungent and Stark, Exterminators for Hire _in elegant lettering in its window. A coach drawn by two horses pulled up in front of the shop, from which emerged a man who was obviously a steward by the dress of his uniform. He walked into the store, its bells ringing.

The shop was bare inside except for a large desk and a door in the side wall. Behind the desk sat a short, swarthy fellow with dirty blonde hair and a trimmed moustache, dressed in dirty brown breeches, who was writing in a ledger as he counted the coins in front of him. He did not look up from his work, not even to greet the customer in front of him.

"Excuse me," the steward began.

The man did not rise from his work.

"I want to hire you," the steward continued.

The man still did not rise from his work. The steward frowned with annoyance.

"Here now!" the steward stormed. "Do you ignore all your customers like this?"

The man at the desk did not even react. Finally, the steward lost all patience, stomping over to the man at the desk and grabbing his arm. The man looked up in amazement, and suddenly snapped to attention, shocked by the intrusion.

"Who…who are you?" the man asked.

"I am the house steward of His Honour Silas Whitebait, merchant of Port Blacksand. I want to hire the men named Pungent and Stark," the steward answered imperiously. "I would expect better from such famous tradesmen than to be ignored," he blustered.

"Well, why did you just stand there and not do anything?" the man asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I spoke three times!" the steward snapped, losing his temper. "Couldn't you hear me?"

The man at the desk was about to answer when the side door opened and another man emerged from a back room. He was an identical twin of the man at the desk, with the same hair, same moustache, even the same dirty breeches. Oddly enough, he stared straight ahead, his eyes strangely listless and narrowed.

"Of course he couldn't hear you," the new arrival stated. "You actually thought you could get Stark to hear something?"

"Well…" the steward fumbled. "What kind of civilized man doesn't react when he hears something?"

"Watch your tongue!" the man at the desk, the one named Stark, snapped at the steward. He was looking directly at the steward, his eyes fixed directly on the steward's face. The haughty steward shrank back from his glare.

"Stark is deaf," the second man said with a laugh. "That's why he couldn't hear you!"

"But…I…then…how do you talk?" the steward asked in confusion. "You can't hear…"

"I read lips," Stark replied calmly. "As for talking, I was taught how to do it, and I learned. Now, what is it you want?"

"As I said before," the steward stated, regaining his composure. "I am the house steward of His Honour Silas Whitebait, merchant of Port Blacksand. I want to hire you both to capture and eliminate the rats in one of my master's warehouses. They are damaging his merchandise and he wants to get rid of them before they cause serious damage."

"Sounds easy enough," said the man who had emerged from the side door, the one named Pungent. "Stark, you got one of our contracts?"

Stark looked through the drawers of the desk.

"No," he muttered. "I'll have to get one from the storage room." Stark passed Pungent through the open side door, shutting it behind him and leaving Pungent to deal with their customer.

"How many rooms are there in this warehouse?" Pungent asked the steward.

"Five," the steward replied. "You charge, as I understand it, one hundred gold dragons a room? That's rather expensive…"

"We're the best in the city," Pungent replied unsympathetically. "Consider yourself lucky that we're the ones hunting down the rats. We never fail, guaranteed. And we want payment in advance."

"Very well," the steward grumbled, ruffled by Pungent's brusque attitude. Opening a ledger, he took out quill and ink, before writing on a piece of parchment, a letter of credit that the two exterminators could use to collect gold from Silas Whitebait's account.

"That will do," the steward answered, putting the letter of credit on the desk in front of Pungent.

"What will do?" Pungent asked innocently.

"Your payment," the steward said with annoyance.

"What payment?" Pungent asked in confusion.

"The letter of credit I just gave you!" the steward yelled in frustration. "I put it down right in front of you! Couldn't you see it!"

"Of course not," Stark replied calmly, returning from the back room with a contract in his hand. "Pungent is blind."

The steward slammed his face in his hands in annoyance.

Fortunately, the steward had enough patience to complete the details of the job with his two strange employees, who quickly gathered their gear and locked up their shop, before following the steward into his coach. The coach soon headed off down Dolphin Run, through the Fish Market, and into Net Lane, passing what seemed to be a quiet, though well-maintained, tavern.


	12. Pipe's Famous Alehouse

The tavern in question, Pipe's Famous Alehouse, was normally quiet in the morning. In the afternoon, however, the fishermen docked their boats and the shipbuilders closed their shops for the day, and began pouring into the taverns of the Fish Market District looking for entertainment.

Pipe's Famous Alehouse was just the place to find it. Frequented by the wealthiest fishermen and master shipwrights, Pipe's Famous Alehouse served only the finest grogs and wines. Its prominent place in the Fish Market District was aided by the fact that it had the most beautiful of dancing girls in all of Port Blacksand, something of Durndle Pipe was very proud.

It was hard to tell just how old Mr. Pipe was. Most of his regulars estimated him to be between seventy-five and eighty years old, although they all agreed he was the dirtiest old man they had ever seen. His shock of bushy white hair, his waxed moustache, wide belly and rheumy blue eyes did little to attract most women to him, however. His perpetual reek of wine and spirits did little to help his case, either.

Mr. Pipe himself was tending the bar tonight, smiling widely at the dancing girls on the stage across the way, and the tavern wenches delivering drinks to customers who were getting more and more drunk-and less and less careful with their money. He fingered the latest cut on his face gingerly and sighed, regretting the day he had offered a "job" to that woman from Rimon. How was he to know that she was an expert knife-thrower?

One of Mr. Pipe's regulars came to sit down at the bar. Eurytion the dice master ordered some of Mr. Pipe's rarest elven wines-no doubt he had fleeced some more poor souls at his booth on Nowhere Street, the most famous gambling pit in the city.

"Another busy day, I take it?" Mr. Pipe asked.

"Nearly a hundred dragons, Durndle," Eurytion answered proudly. "I love working on Nowhere Street."

"Anyone interesting tonight?" Mr. Pipe queried him, taking a drink of wine from his own stock.

"Not so much. It's kind of sad, really, when you consider how long and hard so many of those people work for their money...until they come to me," Eurytion said with a grin.

"Aye, it's a pity," Mr. Pipe replied, not really listening. He briefly remembered how his own gambling problems had been one of the things that cost him his own marriage.

"You're an expert on women, though," Eurytion claimed. "Mind giving me some advice?"

Mr. Pipe suddenly snapped to attention.

"What do you want to know?" he asked eagerly.

"There's this one particular lady, Sinas Stickle's new scribe. I want to get her attention, and I thought I should get her some flowers. What kind would you recommend?"

"A dozen long-stemmed roses," Mr. Pipe replied without hesitation. "Women love such romantic gestures. Believe me, I know."

"Indeed. I suppose that's why Effie left you?" Eurytion snickered, referring to Mr. Pipe's former wife.

Mr. Pipe's face darkened.

"In fact, I was thinking of going to Effie's flower shop to buy the roses," Eurytion teased. "I so thank you for your advice, Durndle!"

Mr. Pipe spat angrily.

"I haven't spoken to that old hag in forty-six years, and I'm damn satisfied with that," Mr. Pipe growled. "I suppose you swindled me just like you do all the poor fools who visit you on Nowhere Street, don't you? Pretend to be their friends, steal their riches, their knowledge, whatever it takes?"

"Whatever it takes, Durndle," Eurytion smiled, not apologizing in the least. "This is the City of Thieves, after all, and you have to be the best thief possible to survive."

"As you like, Eurytion. Just pay your damn bill. Three dragons."

Eurytion reached for his bulging money-pouch, only to find to his horror that it was nowhere to be found. Patting his pockets frantically, he saw that the cords tying his purse to his belt had been cut. He had been robbed!

Durndle Pipe only grinned.

"You're the best thief possible, I take it?" he asked sarcastically. "I would suggest you find another way of paying for your drinks, lest I have my bouncer extract payment for me," he said, waving to a large ogre at the far end of the bar. The ogre waved back at its employer, and smiled a gap-toothed grin at Eurytion.

The dice master only whimpered, before pulling an expensive gold ring off his finger and tossing it to Durndle Pipe. It was easily worth at least five times the cost of the drink.

"Give me some credit, then," Eurytion pleaded.

"I don't think so, Eurytion," Durndle Pipe answered with a smile. "You said yourself that one has to be the best thief possible to survive in this city. I think you've just been outdone."

"By you, or whoever cut my purse?" Eurytion demanded in humiliation.

"Both," Durndle Pipe answered with a smile.

Another man, a tall and tanned gentleman with swarthy skin and a thick black moustache, smiled at Eurytion as well, as he exited the premises.


	13. Rannik And The Beckoning Finger

The moustachioed man quickly made his way back to the Market Square, and passed into the area that was the Noose, the heart of Port Blacksand's thieving community. Walking easily by the guards that restricted entrance into the place, before stopping at the Beckoning Finger Tavern. The image on the sign of a grinning thief holding a dagger in one hand and beckoning to the viewer with the other brought a smile to the man's face.

The man strolled into the tavern as if he owned the place, not caring that the tavern was where the highest-ranking members of the Thieves Guild spent their spare time. Lavishly furnished with all the services and pleasures organized crime could bring, the Beckoning Finger ensured that those few who could enter it in safety wanted for nothing.

A hobbit dressed in purple silks ran up to greet the moustachioed man, bowing as he did so.

"A warm welcome to you, Master Rannik," the hobbit said as he took Rannik's cloak. "A pleasant day, is it not?"

"More pleasant by the minute," answered Rannik, one of the five Master Thieves of Port Blacksand, as he patted the newly acquired pouch at his belt. "Everything is ready, I take it?"

"As always, sir," the hobbit replied with a flourish. Rannik strolled casually past the bar and up the stairs, before opening one of the doors. The room that spread before him was a sumptuously prepared private pool, decorated with gems, silver and platinum to produce the effects of a starry sky over a moonlit lake. The flowing of the pool reminded the listener of the sound of the water lapping against the banks of the lake at night.

Rannik shut and locked the door behind him, and finally relaxed, undressing and sinking into the pool. There was well over a thousand dragons worth of treasures in this room alone, but no thief would ever rob the place. The Beckoning Finger was strictly neutral ground for all thieves, and no stealing or murder was allowed. No thief ever broke the rules and lived.

Rannik loved the Star and Moon chamber at the Beckoning Finger. It was peaceful and calm, perhaps the one place in the city that could make such a claim. No need to plot, no need to worry about poison needle traps or being caught by the City Guard or a rival thief. The ability to relax was something even a master criminal like Rannik could appreciate, difficult as it was to take a moment to rest in life.

More than ever, it seemed that way, Rannik mused to himself. _People do three things at once, they struggle and rush in a frenzy, never taking any time for themselves. And they often cannot do so, since a person who takes time to rest is left trying to catch up to things that have passed him by. They're always on a road, pursuing a goal, driving themselves to exhaustion…and for what? Death and Time-curse them both-catch up with everything sooner or later…_

Rannik laughed to himself. Was he a philosopher, or a thief? Perhaps he could be both, and prosper as Mayor of a city like Silverton…but no, he was a Blacksander first, last and always.

And indeed, he was always rushing for more and better things, such as new jobs, more treasure, and ever more power in the guild structure. Perhaps it wasn't so much the acquisition of these things that he loved, but rather the thrill of the hunt and the chase, the danger that his chosen line of work brought him. In all likelihood, that was why most people pursued the goals that they did-their drive and their passion gave meaning to their existence.

Rannik enjoyed spending a few hours at the Beckoning Finger, but he never stayed too late. There was always ever more work to be done, more pockets to pick, more locks to open…

Rannik exited the Beckoning Finger, and passed out through the Noose, pausing for a moment at the bustling scene in front of him. The Market Square was always at its busiest at this time, three hours past noon, and there were always a few purses ready to be cut…


	14. Muriel And Esther

Rannik disappeared into the crowd, made up of people haggling, buying, selling, singing, arguing, and laughing all at once. Goods from the four corners of Allansia could be found here on a good day. Whether they were brought to the city by honest trade or thieving trickery mattered little to most customers, who were eager to purchase anything and everything they could to meet their needs.

Of course, the Market Square offered not only commerce, but entertainment as well. At its center were a series of stocks set up beneath a clump of trees, always filled with a number of sundry criminals, sentenced for petty offences. Although not as miserable as a stay in prison, the stocks were in some ways even worse, as passers-by always stopped to laugh and hurl things at them, namely rotten produce.

Two old women, on their weekly purchasing trip, stopped to look at the four men and one woman in the stocks this day. One of them removed her hat and mopped her forehead, glad for the relief offered by the trees. She clucked disapprovingly at the prisoners in the stocks.

"Awful, just awful, Muriel," the old woman said sadly.

"Aye, that it is Esther," her companion answered. "I happen to know that boy there, the second one on the left. That boy was one of the runners for Lisgar, that pipe-weed salesman in Cut-Throat Alley. I wager he was caught by the City Guard?" Muriel asked with a smile.

"Not so much, Muriel," Esther replied with a smile. "I dare say that he was sold out by one of his friends. That friend didn't take too kindly to how the lad was cutting him out of his share of the profits." She replaced her hat on her head and looked wistfully at the scowling youth caught in the pen. He glared back at her, getting ready to spit…until a rotten egg struck his cheek, splattering his face with rotten yolk.

Muriel grinned at Esther, holding up the sack of rotten vegetables she had just purchased from a street urchin. Esther smiled back and fished around in her pocket for a shill, or silver piece, before handing it to another urchin in a grandmotherly way, pinching the little boy's cheek. The boy smiled back and handed her a particularly vile-smelling sack, before disappearing into the crowd.

"Let's see, then…" Esther paused, considering her target. "I think I can strike that young man on the far right, next to the girl." She chuckled as the rotten tomato caught the unlucky prisoner square between the eyes.

"That boy is a bad seed," Muriel proclaimed with authority. "He caused no end of trouble in my neighbourhood. Always throwing stones, breaking windows, tripping up his elders, things like that."

"What did he do to end up there?" Esther asked, her interest piqued.

"He threw stones, broke windows, and tripped up his elders," Muriel answered with a smile. "I merely had a friend of mine in the City Guard pay him a little visit." She smiled and waved cheerfully at the youth, who merely spat at her. Muriel hissed with annoyance and disappeared into the crowd for a moment, coming back with a worn leather glove.

"What are you going to do with that?" Esther asked. "And why just one old, bad-smelling glove?"

"It only cost one shill," Muriel replied. "But it will be well worth the price." Putting the glove on her right hand, she scooped up some of the dung and offal lying in the street. Striding boldly up to the young man who spat at her, she proceeded to rub all the filth and droppings in his face, before slapping him a few times. Removing the glove, she promptly tossed it at his feet.

"That will teach him to respect his elders," Muriel said calmly.

"Perhaps," Esther replied. "You never know with children these days. Why, that young man there," she continued, indicating the boy on the far left, "was the lookout for the gang that robbed Talimar the Scalper. The little rat bribed the magistrates to only sentence him to this." The young man merely smirked back at her, before sticking out his tongue.

"A pity, it is," Esther continued. "Talimar set my hip back in place after I fell down those stairs a few years ago. I owe him this much, at least," she commented, throwing a rotten egg at the young man. She made another perfect throw, the rotten yolk falling all over the young man's tongue. He withdrew it hastily, spitting in disgust.

"How about that young lady, there?" Muriel inquired. "She hardly looks like the violent type."

"You know as well as I do that appearances are deceiving," Esther rebuked her. "She was involved in beating that poor Jalal Armen lady. Lady Armen didn't even have any money on her. The harridan in the stocks over there merely wanted to attack someone."

"Then she fully deserves this," Muriel noted, throwing a rotten apple at her. The rotten fruit exploded on contact, splattering the young woman with foul-smelling juices.

"And that last one, in the central stock?" Esther inquired.

"I believe…yes, he was a typical pickpocket. A shame it is, he's a good enough boy. I met him in the King's Fingers Tavern once. I take it the magistrate was in a good mood to sentence him so lightly. The rest of his gang was not so lucky. They each gave Lord Azzur's mad executioner a chance to practice his impaling techniques," Muriel answered dryly. "They deserved it, for being such bad influences on such a good boy."

"Then shall we throw what's left in our sacks at the four other hoodlums?" Esther asked.

"A fine idea, and a good example to show the boy," Muriel replied. "A prayer to Libra, that lady of justice, would not go amiss either."

After concluding their business, the two elderly women continued their shopping and gossiping as they weaved their way through the market, paying little heed to the crowd that gathered near the Middle Bridge as the sun began to set, heading for the Garden District and the City Arena.


	15. The City Sports Arena

The crowd of people, rich and poor, human and elf, dwarf and goblin, eagerly packed into the city arena, chattering and shouting eagerly as they waited for the evening's blood sports to begin. Tonight's contest was said to be particularly fiendish-one lone warrior would face a host of monsters, and if he slew them all he would be granted his freedom.

Xuro sweated profusely as he waited in the gladiatorial quarters leading into the arena proper, the voices of the crowd buzzing in his head. Fighting five monsters was not normally a discouraging prospect for the veteran warrior, but he could not help but feel some disgust and horror at the thought of what was coming.

He remembered all the times he had found joy in combat, the thrill of flashing blades, the screams and the blood. The swarthy, black-haired man found himself questioning those beliefs now, being made to fight and slay for the delight of hundreds of onlookers. He was just another faceless character the audience would cheer and pray for, but just as soon forget once he died. His death would mean nothing, for once he was dead, another in a long line of nameless victims would replace him.

The portcullis in front of him opened, and he stepped into the sandy arena, squinting in the torchlight and glancing up at the cheering crowds. The sky was turning dark red in the sunset, the torchlight making it shine the crimson of blood and fire. It was both theatrical and appropriate.

The double doors at the opposite end of the arena rumbled open, and Xuro's first opponent stepped into the arena. Looking much like a shaggy ape, but with four hideous limbs that ended in wickedly sharp claws replacing what should have been its arms, the Clawbeast frothed at the mouth and shrieked with rage at the human in front of it. Ravening and bloodthirsty at the best of times, it looked half-starved and even more ferocious than normal.

The monster charged at Xuro, howling bloody murder and swinging its claws wildly. Raising his sword calmly, Xuro ducked, dodged and slashed back at the clawbeast, cutting one of its arms and then nicking its knee as Xuro pulled his sword back towards him. Enraged, the creature struck again, tearing Xuro's shoulder as he crouched to avoid the blow. The monster tried to bring its arms in to hug the puny human to death, but Xuro's sword flashed like quicksilver, ripping the clawbeast's arms apart and skewering the monster through the chest as the crowd cheered wildly.

Xuro merely stood and glared back at the crowd. Money changed hands, people shouted their admiration, young women tried to attract his attention.

Fools.

The next monster emerged from the arena door, its two heads chattering and hissing to each other. The calacorm, a two-headed monster resembling a cross between a man and a lizard, raised two large spiked maces in either hand as it charged at its human foe. Xuro raise his sword in anticipation.

The calacorm was faster than it looked, easily dodging Xuro's first thrust and lashing out with its tail. Xuro leapt to avoid the trip, but the calacorm suddenly charged, clubbing him on either side with its maces. As he staggered, the calacorm swung at his head.

Growling with pain and bloodlust, Xuro raised his sword, shearing sparks as he deflected the mace. The calacorm brought its other mace to bear, but Xuro suddenly slashed at the calacorm's arm, cutting right through the scaly appendage. Both the calacorm's heads howled with pain, before Xuro's next blow cut them both off in one stroke.

The next monster to emerge seemed strange, almost incredible. A bent female form emerged from the double doors, its head completely bent and covered in a shawl. Xuro dropped his sword, groaning in pain from his wounds. The female creature approached, more quickly than someone would have expected. Raising its shawl and tossing it from its shoulders, the hissing snakes suddenly revealed the deadly medusa, eager for fresh prey.

Xuro kept his eyes bowed, looking straight down at the sand. His sword lay, forgotten, at his side. The medusa cackled gleefully, as the crowd lapsed into silence. The medusa, thinking that Xuro had lost all will to fight, grabbed his head to force him up and look into her eyes.

Xuro kept his own eyes firmly closed, but sprang into movement, his hands sweeping up a cloud of dust and sand. The medusa, her eyes wide open to petrify her foe, howled in agony and recoiled, her eyes full of grit. She could hardly see, much less turn anyone to stone.

Xuro opened his eyes, picked up his sword, and calmly hacked the blinded medusa to death. _So it is true…the blind truly do lead the blind, _Xuro thought without humour as he wiped his sword on the medusa's carcass. Three dead bodies lay in the sand next to him, he was covered in blood both his own and yet not, and the roar of the crowd was palpable.

He felt so alone, the torchlight of the arena the only thing he saw. Like so many other things, both he and it would burn out eventually. Used up, forgotten and thrown away. It hurt to smile, to curse, even to think. All that remained to him was his next foe, whatever it was.

He held his sword in front of him as the next monster stepped into the arena. A loud roaring emerged from the double doors, as a large bear-like creature stepped into the twilight. Its black fur was marked with white stripes, as its fangs and claws dripped with old blood. There was no mistaking a skunkbear.

Xuro knew what to expect as the monster charged at him. He ducked the first swipe of its paw, and slashed with his sword to keep the creature at bay. The skunkbear pulled back before he could wound it. Roaring at him, it stamped its foot and turned around, exposing its hind end to him.

The crowd cheered expectantly as the skunkbear squirted its horrific musk. A nauseating stench, against which even the excrement-ridden Catfish River could not hope to compare, suddenly wafted around Xuro, who merely grimaced and held his breath, stepping backwards to get away from the stink.

The skunkbear was heavily scarred and maimed, having fought three-score or more battles in the arena since it had been captured so many years ago. The wicked creature had learned a thing or two about its human foes, especially how they knew about its nauseating musk. It expected Xuro to back out of range.

Bellowing horribly, the skunkbear charged through its own musk cloud at Xuro. Stepping back, Xuro was in no position to defend himself as the creature bowled him over, pinning him beneath its monstrous bulk. Xuro wrestled desperately with the creature, his sword falling from his grip.

The skunkbear would not let go, and ran its claws up and down his back. Blood soaked the sand, as the two creatures fought in a death grip, both of them empty and angry on the inside, neither of them having any hope left. The crowd cheered and screamed, driving man and beast into more desperate frenzy as they thrashed and rolled on the sandy arena.

Xuro struggled mightily against the skunkbear's grip, screaming in agony as the monster bit into his shoulder. Finally freeing an arm, he reached desperately for his sword, which had fallen from his grip. He had never been faithful to the gods; he always thought they made mortals just to toy with them. They would not be inclined to answer his prayers, but he tried anyway, hoping somehow that he could reach his sword.

The gods were merciful today, as by some stroke of luck he caught his sword. Xuro hacked mightily against the skunkbear, his sword smashing into the creature's head repeatedly. Blood and brains splattered onto Xuro as he struck again and again, the chants and screams of the crowd driving his fury and rage. He had nothing else.

The skunkbear fell dead, Xuro rolling out from its slackened limbs. He was covered in scratches and wounds. Sand caked into his injuries, stinging him terribly. The blood was rising slowly, slowly before his eyes as he struggled to stay conscious. Only one monster remained to fight, and then he would have his freedom…whatever that was.

He barely heard the scuttling and scrabbling of the giant scorpion as it entered the arena. Holding up his sword, Xuro could barely stand, much less fight the last monster, the only thing that stood between him and his release. _Release…what does that even mean? Can I be released? To be released? There's more than one way to be released…_

Yes, either way he would be released. He shouted a challenge and charged at the monster, its claws snapping eagerly as it came forward. One claw cut Xuro's leg as he slashed at the creature's face. Squealing in pain, it cut him in the side with one claw, cutting his already wounded leg with the other. Xuro pounded the monster again, his sword cracking through its shell and spreading gore onto the arena floor.

The scorpion hissed at him and thrust its claws at Xuro before he could react. Caught in a firm grip, there was no way Xuro could avoid the poisonous stinger as it flicked down at him. The venom flooded through his already battered body, as his sword fell from his lifeless grip.

_Yes…I will be released…_Xuro thought. _Nothing but another in an endless line of faceless characters, nameless victims who give my slayers their baneful reputations…at least this way, I will be remembered by someone, even if it is just myself…_

Somehow, that gave him a sense of peace as he fell to the ground. The people here would forget him, but that did not bother him. Better to be forgotten and no longer be a toy or a pawn, than to be remembered and stay like that.


	16. Karashin Virmex And The Viper

One of the patrons of the Sports Arena climbed into a gilded coach that awaited him outside, before being driven to a small but stately manor located just inside the Weaver Gate leading out of the city. The large sign out front identified the place as belonging to a moneylender, as if its owner's profession was not obvious from looking at his tall and lean but chubby frame, the finely tailored clothes of sable and ermine he wore, and elaborately trimmed and waxed beard and moustache.

Karashin Virmex, moneylender of Port Blacksand, noted the setting sun as he walked into his house. Passing through his offices into his private quarters, Virmex calmly sat down and filled his pipe with Gurny's Leaf tobacco, lighting and smoking it as he waited patiently for his hired man to arrive. He had been told that the Six-Fingered Viper was the perfect operative for the job; now he only hoped that this Viper character lived up to his reputation.

The doorbell rang an hour later, and Virmex went down into his parlour to meet his guest. No one appeared, and the moneylender stood impatiently in the room for ten minutes, smoking his pipe and scowling irritably. Was this the Viper's idea of a joke? Did this man even exist?

Running out of both tobacco and patience, Virmex went back upstairs to refill his pipe. Opening the door to his bedroom, he nearly ran head on into the man awaiting him.

The Six-Fingered Viper lived up to his name well. He was a small, sinuous man with oddly slanted eyes, his thin frame constantly twitching and moving silently like the snake whose name he bore. Dressed all in dark greenish colours, his hair was both cropped short and oddly spiked, and his gaze seemed to pierce into the hearts of those he met. Most amazing were the six fingers on his right hand. The last finger, the one that should not have been there, twitched and shook almost on its own.

Karashin Virmex was momentarily stunned, then angered at the man's impertinence, before he finally burst out laughing.

"I take it my money is being well spent," the fat man laughed, as he passed the Viper to reach his snuffbox. The Viper merely looked back at him.

"Tell me, then," the Viper asked slowly and carefully. "You said you wanted someone discreet, who could perform a delicate job for you. What is it, then, that you want me to do?"

"Help me become the next master of the Moneylender's Consortium," Virmex said without hesitation, referring to Port Blacksand's guild of moneylenders. "I've had my eye on the position for the last few years, ever since-"

"Yes, yes, ever since the previous master was murdered and robbed. The moneylenders have left the leadership of the guild vacant ever since, because it was more profitable for you all to work on your own. No guild to take a cut of your profits?" the Viper asked.

"You seem to know almost as much about the guild's business as I do," Virmex commented. "Yes, we had no guild to take part of our profits, and no guild to protect us from the depredations of the thieves or of Lord Azzur. We have decided that the time has come for us to elect a new leader, one who can teach our enemies that we are not to be trifled with."

"You are that leader?" Viper asked.

"Most certainly," Virmex said firmly.

"And how am I to help you?" the Viper asked.

"Find out all the dirty secrets and double-dealings of my rivals, and bring them back to me. I can 'persuade' my opponents that it is in their best interests to concede the election to me, and save themselves scandal and humiliation by having their darkest secrets exposed."

The Viper rubbed his chin.

"Blackmail, then? Surely buying votes would work just as well?"

"You are not a moneylender, else you would know how dangerous it is to flaunt money carelessly," Virmex answered. "We moneylenders entrap those who do such things, and know how dangerous it is to be in that situation ourselves."

The Viper shrugged.

"Very well, then. Fifty dragons for every useful fact or piece of information I shall bring to you will be my rate," the snake-like man claimed.

"A steep price," Virmex grumbled. "I shall pay you half of your fee once I receive the required information, and the other half once I am master of the guild."

"Two-thirds," the Viper demanded. Virmex's face darkened.

"How dare you-"

"You realize, my would-be employer, that I could just as easily be selling the secret of our meeting to one of your rivals? Two-thirds will guarantee my silence," the Viper said smoothly.

Virmex scowled.

"A man named after a snake indeed," the moneylender muttered, gesturing for the Viper to follow him. "I find it indeed curious that you are willing to show yourself to me," Virmex continued as they walked down a hallway. "I would have thought most thieves did their best work in the shadows."

"Not all thieves, my friend," the Viper said with a smile, his filed teeth glinting in the dim torchlight of the halls. "The mark of a great thief is one who works in plain sight, who can shed his appearance, just as a snake sheds its skin."

"But…your sixth finger…" Virmex started.

"Whatever is in the past, is in the future. Whatever is in the future, was in the past. What was lost is found, what was found is lost. What is an illusion is the truth, and what is truth is an illusion," the Viper said enigmatically, waggling his sixth finger.

Virmex couldn't help but shudder. The gods only knew what he was talking about, but it mattered little anyway.

"Be off with you, then. Find me what I require, and you shall receive two-thirds of your payment, and the last when I am master of the guild."

Taking a bow, the Six-Fingered Viper accompanied Virmex to the door of his house, and vanished out into the night.


	17. Beanpole And Hoggins

The Viper passed unnoticed by a patrol of the City Guard, who were marching past the Weaver Gate into the rough and tumble Harbour District. The Harbour District was where the pirates and the merchants gathered, both of whom were willing to spend lots of coin buying cheap rooms, cheaper whores, and even cheaper wine, and spend lots of blood on the fights and violence that broke out here every night.

Passing through Weaver Street and into Clothcutter's Yard, the guards looked to the Valentis's Bane Inn on one side of the Yard, and the Eye of Needle Tavern and Gashanka's Tavern on the other. They were rough, brutal men and trolls who were veterans of street fights and military clashes, but none of them had any real desire to go into Valentis's Bane. Splitting up into two groups, they marched into the two taverns on the other side of the yard, except for one particularly daring guard, who marched straight into Valentis's Bane.

Valentis's Bane was named for Lord Azzur, the ruler of Port Blacksand, who had slain the city's previous ruler, Baron Illios Valentis, in a very messy way. Azzur had made his living as a very successful pirate, and so many of the nastiest pirates idolized him. The owner of Valentis's Bane had cleverly capitalized on his ruler's fame by naming his tavern after Azzur. As he expected, he never wanted for customers.

The guard, a squat burly human with a stubbly moustache, wrinkled his nose in disgust. The stench of sweat, grog, unwashed bodies, vomit and excrement all mixed in the tavern to produce a truly foul-smelling odour, complemented perfectly by the stains of blood and spilled beer all over the walls and floor. The tavern itself appeared to be built of driftwood and the wreckage of pirate ships, held together more by luck than sound construction. Pirates of every size and description sat at the rickety tables, drinking, gambling and fighting, kissing their painted "companions", tearing into foul-smelling grub, or playing games of pinfinger and knifey-knifey.

The guard winced as he heard one man give a howl of pain, and a crash as he fell dead. Knifey-knifey was a game you played for keeps, one way or another.

Ordering a beer, the guard sat down at the bar and turned around, watching several pirates sitting around the long table in the center of the room. He grinned as he watched the scene-men of the sea always told such amusing tales…

One of the pirates, a pot-bellied, porcine fellow with a long black scar running down his left arm, took a hefty swig from his ale. His voice slurred and his body trembled from the effects of the drink.

"I…I tells ya Beanpole…I killed all sex….all six of 'em with one t'rust…"

The pirate's companion, a tall, lean fellow with a prominently hooked nose and shiny black goatee, looked at his neighbour out of the one good, red-lined eye he could see with.

"Last time it was seven, ya stupid jib-jib! Whennaya get it strait…?"

"The pit youse callin' a liar?" the pig-like pirate accused.

"I…I ain't callin 'ya a liar, Hoggins…" Beanpole answered. "I's just sayin…ya gotta get yer fats in line…"

"Ya callin me fat!?" Hoggins accused. He took another drink of grog.

"Youse could standa lose a few, tubbo," Beanpole answered, before he clapped his hand over his mouth.

"Logaan-on-a-stick," he groaned. "Did I shay dat out loud?"

"Yeah," Hoggins answered. "And you'll shee some'pin out loud, too!" he yelled, smashing his mug into Beanpole's face.

Beanpole fell off his stool and onto the floor. Staggering to his feet, he picked up his stool and smashed it across Hoggins's face. The rest of the crowd began cheering, as the pig-like pirate picked up another empty mug and threw it at the tall pirate. Beanpole ducked, and the mug smashed a third pirate, a burly man-orc covered in tattoos, across the back of the head.

The whole tavern suddenly exploded in a frenzy of fighting. Chairs were smashed into men, men were smashed into tables, and tables were smashed into splinters. Beanpole was caught in a knife fight with a wide-shouldered hulk of a man with his upper lip torn away, giving him a hideous permanent grin, while Hoggins wrestled a man with a hook on his right hand.

Beanpole ducked his opponent's first stab, before gashing him with his own knife. Howling in pain, the other pirate dropped his knife and punched out, catching Beanpole in the face and slamming him against the wall. The other pirate punched again and again, slamming Beanpole's head against the wall, as the tall pirate began to black out.

Hoggins picked up a chair leg as the hook-handed pirate swung his deadly appendage. Bracing the leg in both hands, Hoggins somehow managed to get the hook caught in the table leg. The short, fat man grinned as he pulled his foe toward him, before punching out with his free hand, shattering the hook-handed pirate's jaw and knocking out several teeth. Standing up, Hoggins looked around, and glanced up at the wooden chandeliers…

Dazed and half-conscious, Beanpole held out his knife as his foe punched him mercilessly. He was vaguely aware of the horrible scream as the pirate's fingers were severed, before his vision cleared. Grinning, Beanpole thrust his dagger into the pirate's shoulder before running off.

Hoggins, meanwhile, had taken a running jump, before leaping to catch the wooden chandeliers. Meaning to swing across the room in a flying tackle, the fat pirate lost his grip as the warped, worm-eaten wood broke under the strain of his enormous gut. Howling with terror, Hoggins crashed on a mass of seven pirates all beating each other with sticks and fists, and was soon buried in a sea of bodies.

Beanpole was running for the door, until he ran into a truly huge pirate, looking more like a hill giant than a man. Livid scars and tattoos covered his body, and he wielded a huge spiked club. The pirate flashed a huge grin, eager for a fight.

"Remember me, Beanpole? The man you swindled at blackjack last month?"

Beanpole remembered him, all right. He also remembered how fearsome this one was in battle. The huge pirate remembered Beanpole, and was eager for some payback. The huge pirate raised his club…

…and fell like a house of cards as Beanpole kneed him in the crotch. The tall, lean pirate stomped on his massive foe's groin three more times, before finally making it to the door and stumbling into the dark night.

Punching, kicking and biting, Hoggins eventually emerged from the melee with three new scars and the old one on his arm freshly opened and oozing blood. A sword-wielding dwarf charged at the pig-like pirate, but Hoggins simply punched him out, before staggering out the door. He found Beanpole waiting for him.

"The hell's dat all 'bout, anyway?" Beanpole asked Hoggins.

"Dammed if I know," Hoggins muttered, only half-conscious from the booze and the pain. "Lesh…let's get back onna ship. Cap'n'll have our 'ides if we ain't back by dawn."

"Pirates…fights for da stupidest t'ings," Beanpole slurred drunkenly, leaning on Hoggins for support. The two men walked back towards their ship, leaving behind the sounds of crashes and screams, not even noticing the tavern window shattering and the body flying halfway across Clothcutter's Yard before slumping into the street.


	18. Shareela And The Eagle Tower

One of the City Guard emerged from the Eye of the Needle to see what all the commotion was, and rushed into Clog Street, turning into Stable Street as he ran for the guard blockhouse to retrieve his companions. He did not notice the gathering storm, and was halfway to the blockhouse before a loud crash of thunder heralded the storm's arrival.

The guardsman had passed a solitary tower at the corner of Tower Street and Stable Street in his haste. The tower stood in silence for some time, as flashes of lightning cut through the air and howling winds and rain pummelled the city. Something sinister seemed to hang in the air as the storm raged and the winds pealed over the tower, which stood as a silent witness to all the deeds and secrets that seemed to pass on a night such as this. Hidden cabals, whispered conspiracies, voices in the fog…all seemed to pass so well on a night like this.

If one were to enter the tower, they would be struck by many of the unusual things they found within. The flapping of wings, the cawing of the ravens and crows that seemed to throng its entrance-hall, and the gargoyles and dimly-burning torches would have shown the unusual character of the people who came to the tower, with secrets concealed and plots imagined.

A tall, thin woman came down the stairs from the upper floors into the entrance-hall, looking around slowly. Her arms and legs were almost impossibly long, and her entire body was pale, lined and gaunt. The woman's eyes were bright and sinuous, gleaming against the dim torchlight as her hair fell to her shoulders, sliding off her midnight-blue robes. Looking into her mirror, she chose the mask, concentrating on the form she desired. She all but vanished, appearing as a hooded being whose face was hidden in the deepest recesses of her cowl, and whose hands seemed wreathed in shadow.

The storm roared outside as the lightning seemed to rage, but the woman stood silently and patient. Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, the ravens and crows began cawing. Three secret doors seemed to emerge out of the stonework of the woman's tower, as another woman and two men stepped into view. It was too dim to truly see them in the shadows, although they spoke loudly, clearly and with purpose.

"We are here, Mistress," one of the men called out.

The rain continued to fall, weeping as it fell outside, lost and alone.

The first woman stepped further into the torchlight, her hooded cowl concealing the long, contorted face.

"You have brought me what I asked?" she hissed coldly and sharply, before lapsing into silence once more.

"Of course, my lady," the other woman answered. "It is being moved to our base in the Fish Market District as we speak."

The first woman nodded, before turning to the two men standing to either side of her companion.

"We will deal with those members of the Hadracks who have thwarted our operations in Rimon, my lady," the first man responded to her unasked question.

"Their nightmares have just begun," the second added. The wind outside seemed to howl in response.

"As it shall be, then," their mistress replied. "I need not remind you of what to say to Master Rannik and Lady Ironhand?"

"Certainly not, mistress," one of the men answered. The mistress nodded. These men and this woman, the highest-ranking members of the Port Blacksand Guild of Thieves, her Guild of Thieves, were as loyal to her cause as she could make them. Competent, loyal and without feeling, they served her without question, as they ever had from birth until death. They controlled the guild for her, overseeing its operations and directing its plots. A puppet for a puppet, a guild for a kingdom…

"A question, my lady," one of the men asked. Their puppetmaster snapped back to reality.

"Yes?" she replied slowly.

"What of your plans to expand our activities in Silverton, Chalice and Salamonis? Have you made your conclusions as to what is needed? I counsel that we must prepare for the wars in the streets that will occur…"

"Quite right," the mistress replied calmly. She pulled three scrolls from the folds of her robes, advancing and giving one to each of her pawns. "These contain my decisions, and what is to be said and done. Follow what I have said and the guilds of those cities will know what it means to fear, and to be afraid…" a sob and a choke caught her voice, before she dismissed the actions.

"Begone, then. You know what must be done, so see to it," the mistress of the Guild of Thieves commanded. Bowing as one, her lieutenants, her puppets, disappeared through their secret doors and were gone, as images in the night, half-forgotten dreams remembered only in the corner of the mind.

The woman removed her magical mask, showing her long, gaunt features once more. To the world she was known as Shareela, the lady of EagleTower, whose passion was the study and protection of the birds of Allansia. There were many sides to her coin, however, other things that she had gained, but that she had lost. Being the Mistress of the Guild of Thieves was a great honour in itself, but it was little, so very little, compared to what she once had…

Marching up the stairs back to her residence in the tower, she removed a ring of keys from her pocket and proceeded to open the dozen locks sealing the hard steel and iron door at the end of one of the corridors. Poisoned needles, deadly wizard magic, and electrical shocks awaited anyone foolish enough to try and open the door. What lay beyond was more precious to her than all the wealth in the world…

Sounds of giggling, laughing and chiming greeted the woman known as Shareela as she walked into a more brightly-lit room. Toys, pictures, and books decorated the whole room, coloured in bright pastels and soft hues, offering a strange, almost alien, yet oddly complementary view on the raging storm outside. Everything still seemed very sharp, almost out-of-place from the wretched hovel of a city it was placed in, even as it matched it in other ways.

Six children were at play in the room, four boys and two girls. From the ages of six to seventeen, they were all pale, gaunt and drawn, appearing almost like manikins, their eyes twinkling in the torchlight as they turned to greet their mother.

"How is the progress of the guild tonight, my queen?" one of the boys asked as he pulled up a chair for the exhausted Shareela. She patted the lad gently on the shoulder as she sat down.

"It goes quite well, good prince, as it always must," she sighed, flinching as the thunder outside crashed loudly, as if to carry the rage of the gods to her soul. She glared out the lone window in the upper wall at the hateful storm, its lightning flashing off her eyes as she uttered a silent curse at the heavens.

:"Mother?" one of the girls asked. Shareela glanced over at the young woman, sighing as she remembered the necessities of her family and station.

"Yes, child?" Shareela asked gently.

"I fear that Ramstus will not last the year. He is growing ill and fading fast…"

_As it always was, _Shareela thought grimly. Atreus, the founder of her line, could salvage little from Carsepolis when the city had fallen, but he had found a way to survive. They always had, for nearly three centuries. Atreus, younger brother of Erechion, Crown Prince of the kingdom of Allansia and Carsepolis, had survived the battle, indeed found a way to thrive. Atreus had led some of the pirates and bandits to live in the ruins, making himself lord and master of what would eventually become the Port Blacksand Guild of Thieves.

The family that ruled the guild, that family that once held all of north-west Allansia in thrall, lived through chance, becoming masters of their city once more, ruling alongside the lords and despots who held the reins of power. No longer were they kings; they fled to the shadows, kidnapping young children to marry into their ranks as needed. Shareela's eagles served her well for that purpose.

Betrothed as children, made royalty of the shadows, trapped in this pit of a tower until they became masters of the guild…what did it all mean? Shareela slumped in exhaustion, dreaming of glories faded, time that was lost, now skulking in the shadows like one of the pitiful rabble her guild employed. Her daughter's betrothed would in all likelihood be dead, and she would have to find another child…she heard the laughter and whispers in the shadows, that seemed to fade away and yet linger like a mist over her mind. There were secret feelings, hidden wishes that no one could ever know…

The wind howled in her ears, the thunder crashed in her soul, the lightning flashed in her eyes as she relaxed on her throne…


	19. Greeyugh And Silas Whitebait

The rains ended with the morning sun, although the morning fogs were still an oppressive veil as they hung over the city. One of the eagles in EagleTower set off on its morning flight, crossing almost the whole of the city as it surveyed its mistress's hidden kingdom, before passing over the south-eastern walls of the city as it sought out its prey.

A wizened old man in silver-rimmed spectacles stood on his balcony as he watched the sunrise in the east. His manor, at the ends of Palace Street and Field Street, just north of the Hole in the Wall Inn, was one of the most opulent in the small cluster of houses near the Field Gate, just south of the forbidding palace of Lord Azzur himself. Shrivelled and wrinkled, the old man's cold grey eyes were afflicted with a dead look and his narrow, mottled face made him vaguely resemble some bottom-feeding fish. His robes, although cut of the finest silk and dye, were coloured in dirty, dull hues that did nothing to discourage his fishy image.

Silas Whitebait-the "old fish", as most of his detractors called him-held most of the gods in contempt, having dedicated himself to the promises of wealth long ago. One of Port Blacksand's most infamous merchants, he was notorious both for using hired brigands to harass his competitors, and for making a fine business selling to orcs, goblins and worse monsters. Indeed, one of his finest customers was due to make an appearance very soon.

One of Whitebait's servants appeared at the window leading back inside, making haste to tell his master that Greeyugh waited to see him downstairs. Whitebait ordered the servant to prepare some Guursh, the infamous orc ale, for their guest, as he came down to meet the troll himself.

Greeyugh was everything one might expect in a troll: tall and well-muscled, with yellow eyes and bloodied fangs, smelling like a garbage midden and looking half as pleasant. Reclining on one of Whitebait's couches, the huge troll stood up as Whitebait entered the sitting-room, marching to the center and glaring at the troll.

Leaping off the couch, Greeyugh stood to his full height, towering over the human merchant by at least a metre. The hill troll grinned as he looked down at the puny merchant, knowing full well he could break the withered man with one hand. Whitebait did not flinch, merely glaring at the troll for dirtying his couch.

Whitebait calmly adjusted his spectacles as he looked up at the huge troll.

"I did not expect you in until the end of the month," he said dryly. "You need more oil and corn already?"

The troll looked down at Whitebait in response. His eyes glittered with intelligence unusual in any chaotic, let alone a hill troll.

"What do you care? It's more money for you, anyhow," the troll answered, speaking as well as any human.

"I suppose you lot can't do much with your treasure besides gamble with it. The gods only know why you spend so much time attacking humans for it," Whitebait replied, raising an eyebrow.

"Hashak only knows why you humans spend so much time attacking each other for it. And you have the gall to accuse us of hoarding useless riches," Greeyugh smirked in response. Whitebait merely scowled.

"Are we going to banter, or do business?" Whitebait snapped irritably.

"Do business, of course," Greeyugh answered.

"That's more like it," Whitebait answered. "So, what do you need this time?"

"Pitch, trail rations, wine, rope, chains, tinderboxes, oil, and fireproofing resin," Greeyugh answered without hesitation.

Whitebait raised an eyebrow.

"Supplies for war, I take it?" he asked dryly. "Who are the unlucky victims this time?"

"The Hissing Plague," Greeyugh said in disgust. "They're a tribe of goblins and hobgoblins that use disease-casting magic in battle, to say nothing of their flies and rats. They took over a rather fine dwarf-hold in the western IcefingerMountains, and they're expanding into our territory. They sent some of their rats against our young…" Greeyugh's eyes flashed with anger. "They will pay with blood for what they have done."

"I see," answered Whitebait without blinking an eye. "I take it, too, that they have some fine ore and gems in their dwarf-hold?" Whitebait's major concern, as always, was how his customers were going to pay him.

Greeyugh calmed down, his mood always improved by discussing loot and plunder.

"Silver, Master Whitebait," the troll replied with a grin. "Veins of silver wider than you are tall. One of the richest hoards of silver in all the western Icefingers."

"Excellent," Whitebait smiled, pleased that the troll was now speaking his language. "Will I end up having to wait for payment for my goods? You are, of course, well aware that I do not extend credit," the merchant finished with a scowl, looking more like a cold-hearted old fish than ever.

Greeyugh's eyes narrowed.

"I have never reneged on a debt to you, Whitebait, and you had best remember that. I know your extortionate prices, and have already brought the payment you will ask," the troll answered, pulling a bulging pouch from his belt.

"Coins or jewels?"

"As you demanded, jewels. I take it the gem merchants are less extortionate in their exchanges than the moneychangers?"

"Only slightly," Whitebait muttered. He would have had Greeyugh pay him in hard Blacksand currency, but there was no way the troll could gather enough of Lord Azzur's coinage to pay. It was either foreign coins or gems, both of which would have to be liquidated and made into Blacksand coins.

"Let us get down to business, then. How much will you need of each supply?" Whitebait demanded. He knew this would not take long; the troll had already memorized Whitebait's standard prices, as had most of the chaotics who did business with the old fish. As much as Greeyugh disliked Whitebait, he was still willing to do business with him.

Whitebait privately wondered how Greeyugh would have reacted if he knew that Whitebait had been the one who had sold the potions containing a strain of plague that worked especially well on orcs and trolls to the Hissing Plague. Money was the only master Whitebait knew; anyone who offered it could buy his goods. Just as two sides in a conflict meant to make a killing of each other, so too could Whitebait make a killing off of them both.


	20. Sir Eustace, Lady Erin And Lady Violet

Whitebait and Greeyugh were sitting in the parlour of his mansion, which had no windows leading into the street. Had they been looking out into the street, they may have noticed a middle-aged man with stringy, salt-and-pepper hair clad in faded robes and finery that would have come from a noble's closet, had it not been so tattered and worn.

Cast-off clothes worn by one of the cast-off peoples of Port Blacksand…the middle-aged man was all too aware of the irony. Spitting in the direction of Whitebait's manor, he stalked off south and down Brass Lane, passing the main city gates before reaching one of the houses at the end of Wall Street.

Knocking thrice on the door, a sliding panel and a pair of grey eyes greeted the middle-aged man. The eyes lit up upon seeing him.

"You've come at just the right time, milord," the man behind the door said, greeting the middle-aged man who had knocked. "Come right in, Sir Eustace, and join our feast…"

Sir Eustace nodded, as the doorman unlocked the door and strode in as if he owned the place, tossing a copper piece as a tip. The doorman smiled and saluted, and Sir Eustace tipped his hat in return.

Sir Eustace passed into a large room that seemed decorated as a feast-hall, with an elaborate dining table and chairs, battered and warped by the passage of time and abandoned by their original owners. Many other people were already seated at the tables, chatting and gossiping as easily as if they were in any of the fine social clubs favoured by Blacksand's wealthy elite. Many of them were dressed in the same worn and tattered robes and silken clothes as Sir Eustace, at one time cast off by their original owners and now taken up by these people of Blacksand.

Sir Eustace went to one of the hogsheads set in the corner of the room, and filled up one of the tankards sitting on a table next to them. He smiled as he greeted the familiar reek of Port Blacksand ale. Most people would view it as swill, as disgusting slop. Most people would wonder how on Titan Sir Eustace could drink such disgusting ditch-water.

To Sir Eustace, this common beer was heaven. Sipping his drink, he moved to greet two women who sat at the main dining tables. They were dressed in stained wedding gowns, that were obviously marked with the results of some debauched noble party held by their previous owners on their wedding-nights. Sir Eustace crinkled his nose in disgust-he had personally seen the way wealthy young Blacksand debutantes treated their dresses, that had been so lovingly and painstakingly crafted by the dressmakers who sold them. Courga forbid that his daughters would ever act that way…

"My greetings, Lady Erin, Lady Violet," Sir Eustace smiled kindly as he sat down next to them. A pity it was that they were all married; they remained as lovely as ever. But a wedding vow was a vow, and neither Sir Eustace or his companions would break such a sacred oath. Not that such things seemed to bother their employers-many wealthy Blacksanders seemed to view adultery as almost a sacred duty.

Lady Erin and Lady Violet both raised their worn hats in greeting.

"A pleasure as always, Sir Eustace. And how goes the family?"

"It's a struggle, as always," Sir Eustace sighed. "The Thieves Guild has raised its protection rates in Winding Street again. I suppose I should be fortunate that Master Hadrak threw out these boots," he said, indicating the shoes on his feet, "else I would have gone barefoot. Serinlia needs a new cloak more than I do." He idly glanced down at his grumbling stomach. It was always a pain, but a daughter usually needs the bread more than her father. "And how are you both?"

"Father Robul does what he can, but he hasn't been the same since those rascals in the Razor Cats gang roughed him up. They broke his hand, you know," Lady Violet replied. "He and his ward Ben are in hiding now, given that Ben killed their leader when they attacked his master." Sir Eustace gasped.

"Where is he now?"

"I owe him much; without him I would never have survived Failen's birth," Lady Violet replied. That was all anyone needed to know. Sir Eustace nodded, before turning to Lady Erin.

"I wonder what Fourga would think of his priests collecting food and clothes for such humble folks," Lady Erin replied, indicating her wedding dress with a chuckle. "The priests say that their pride comes from within, and they're proud to help us. That doesn't exactly fit with-"

"-with the sermons Master Hadrak hears every week? I know that as much as anyone," Sir Eustace laughed. "Strange it is, how different their actions when they're outside the temple as opposed to inside."

"Not so much," Lady Erin answered. "There are those men of the cloth who talk, and those who do. Some scream about how Fourga will punish us all, how we'll die if we don't heed their words, all that nonsense. The ones I like are the ones who actually practise what they preach. You should just ignore the loudest ones; they make the rest of the priests look bad."

Sir Eustace raised an eyebrow as he sipped his beer. A fair enough point, perhaps.

"How is Master Hadrak these days?" Lady Violet asked, referring to the nobleman who employed Sir Eustace.

"Do you even need to ask?" he responded dryly. "Every year his waistline gets longer and his temper gets shorter. Lays into his children with a rattan-stick, screams about the Thieves' Guild, plots to avoid Azzur's import taxes, all that business. I can't tell whether he doesn't know or doesn't care about Lady Hadrak's affair with that fellow in the City Guard, or about how his heir has that one disease you can only get from the whores in Sneak Way."

All three of them shuddered.

"Oh, and Master Hadrak himself is more or less addicted to the poppies," Sir Eustace noted.

In response, Lady Erin fished a silver piece from her pocket and tossed it into the air.

"I don't think that's the only thing he's addicted to," she noted, as the coin landed on the table, before falling through the cracks and clattering to the ground.

Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by a clatter of the bell from a fellow at the head of the table. His tattered judge robes and ragged wig gave him a look that was both faintly regal and faintly ridiculous at the same time.

"Dinner is just about ready," he said. "Pickings are slim, I'm afraid-we've had to settle for roast squirrels and some of the vegetables our friends in Fourga's priesthood were able to scavenge for us."

A smile played on Sir Eustace's face as he considered the lack of protest in the room. Tradesfolk who were lucky to go another day in the vilest city in Allansia without being mugged, robbed and murdered were not about to complain if the pickings for supper were somewhat slim. Simply being able to gather the way they did, a small bit of tranquility in a city of madness, being able to help each other survive in the hellhole of Port Blacksand, was reason enough to celebrate.

The cobblestones shone outside the house where they met, gleaming in the sun. Most of them knew they would never be rich, content to feed themselves and their loved ones. Titan only knew how they survived in a pit like Port Blacksand, but somehow they did. Not all of them survived, some of them would join the City Guard, the Thieves Guild or the Razor Cats. But they still managed to pull through.


	21. Carulus The Grey

As dusk approached, a wagon passed by the house along those same cobblestones, turning into Key Street and passing north, crossing Market Street into Clock Street, before finally turning into Needle Alley and stopping in front of a squat black building across the lane from Arlob's Emporium. A tall, angular man exited the wagon, opening the door to the building and passing through with a sombre calm.

The entrance-way was decorated like a funeral parlour. Incense wafted in the air, permeating the hallway with a mystical aura that seemed sad and serene, dreamlike and harshly real at the same time. The tall man looked around, a grim but resigned look on his face as he walked up to the desk at the back of the entrance-way and rang a bell that sat on the counter.

A bent, wizened old woman in a grey shawl and black dress shambled from a door in the back wall, before advancing to greet the tall man. It was impossible to tell how old she was, from her snow-white hair to her sad, hard eyes and rough skin, she resembled a winter's snow on a craggy, withered tree. Carulus the Grey never seemed to change with the passing of time, despite the thousands of people who had crossed her path. She adjusted her spectacles and peered up at the tall man.

"How many for the crypt this week, Carulus?" the tall man asked. He glanced sidelong at the cold, grey walls and their featureless, faded expressions.

They all ended up like this, sooner or later.

"Come with me," was all Carulus said quietly, her voice crackling like aged, dusty parchments. She escorted the tall man through the door in the back wall and brought him into a room that resembled a vast marble mausoleum, where several bodies lay on a large stone table in the center. Morkhul was a good son, well able to handle the transport of the bodies where his mother no longer could. All of Carulus's sons contributed to her undertaker's business, and they were content to handle the physical work, while she tended to the ledgers and dealt with the customers.

Morkhul walked past Carulus to the first of the cadavers, a heavily scarred man with a huge frame. His hairy body, the thickness of his muscles, and the markings of his tattoos singled him out as a Strongarm, a tribe of hairy men renowned for their incredible strength and their incredible stupidity. This one seemed strangely emaciated, and his body was marked with the bites of fleas and lice.

"What's this one's story?" Morkhul asked his mother.

Carulus adjusted her spectacles as she tried to recall.

"He was crippled in some war long ago, I think. Couldn't fight, drifted into Blacksand, and became a beggar. Lived hand to mouth for several years, until he was found in an alley with his throat cut and the four silver pieces he had on him gone."

"A shame," Morkhul answered as calmly as he asked. "Carry a sword for king and country, and what does it bring you? Ruin and tragedy."

"A better fate than this one," Carulus said calmly, indicating a blond-haired youth clad in filthy, reeking breeches, his body marked with a hundred knife wounds. "Robbed a wealthy merchant who'd just arrived in the city, then he was ambushed by a street gang. One dagger against twenty."

"So much for the rules against killing brother thieves," Morkhul stated. "What about her?" he asked, indicating a beautiful young woman clad in a tattered gown, her body covered in bruises. He scowled, as his cheeks flushed red with anger.

"You can guess," Carulus answered. Her normally impassive face fell into a sympathetic frown, as her voice began to quaver. "I don't need to describe what was done to her. Suffice to say that I'd rather have the animal who did this to her laying on our table, but there wasn't enough left of him after the Leaf Beasts had finished to fill a mixing bowl," she answered, referring to the magical, carnivorous foliage that owned by Lord Azzur. Azzur often fed his beloved plants with the worst of Blacksand's criminals.

"Libra works in strange ways, it seems," Morkhul answered as he considered the fourth body. "It's not often we welcome an elf, especially a mountain elf. An interesting tale, I take it?" he prompted, instantly regaining his cold, sombre demeanour.

Carulus became cold as ice before she spoke again.

"He's an adventurer, I think. He was inquiring into some business of the sorcerer Brabantius, and this is the result," she said as Morkhul turned the body over to reveal the elf's scarred and burned face.

"And this one?" Morkhul asked, pointing to a bloated body dressed in fine silken robes that bore the marks of being let out several times to accommodate their owner's expanding waistline.

"A rich merchant, ate himself to death."

"And these two?" he asked, indicating two men whose clothes smelled of fish and the sea. The body of one was covered with what appeared to be teeth marks, while the other simply stank of alcohol.

"They're from the Fish Market District," Carulus answered. "One of them was a fisherman who got into a fight with a snapperfish and lost. The other was a dockworker who died after a drinking contest at the Drunken Fisherman Inn."

The last body was that of a very old man dressed in robes marked with magical symbols and sigils. Morkhul looked at his mother for an explanation.

"He was a great wizard, one of the highest in the guild," Carulus answered. "Old age put an end to his ambitions."

They suddenly heard a clanging of the bell from the entrance hall. Someone needed their service.

Mother and son returned out front, finding a young couple waiting for them, their cheeks streaked with tears. The man cradled a small bundle in his arms, even as the woman tried to stop crying.

Carulus the Grey and her son suddenly took on soft, tender expressions as they gently greeted their customers.

"May I ask what occurred?" Carulus asked in a quiet, motherly tone. She waited until the young couple had regained their composure enough to answer.

"She ran out into the streets…" the man said sadly. "The coach didn't even try to stop…" The woman began crying again. It was the same as so often before-the coaches of the wealthy tore through the streets of Blacksand with impunity.

"Morkhul, please take care of this poor child. Make sure she gets the same treatment her spirit will receive from Lord Titan," Carulus ordered her son. Morkhul gently took the body into his arms, cradling it with all the compassion he might have if it were still alive. He then walked quietly back into the mausoleum to make his preparations.

"What would you like us to do?" Carulus asked. These poor youths, barely more than children themselves, could do with a mother figure now. Let her worry about the grim details, they just needed to be taken care of. All she needed to know was what they wanted, and she would deliver without fault.

Morkhul had laid the child onto the stone table by the time Carulus had finished with the couple. She ordered him to take his coach and drive them home, giving him instructions on what to tell them for the funeral. Morkhul nodded and walked back into the main room to console the grieving couple.

Carulus was alone in the mausoleum, gazing at the nine bodies in front of her. Children, ruffians, rich nobles, fishermen or brave heroes in life, they all came to her eventually. Whoever you were in life, in the end you were no better or worse than the person next to you. No amount of gold or magic would prevent Death and Time from claiming their own.

Those who saw Carulus might have seen her as cold and heartless as the marble slabs on which the bodies rested. They would not have recognized her in the kindly old woman who had tried to ease the suffering of those left behind. For her part, Carulus saw herself as no different than anyone else in the world, living or dead. She would hardly have been human had she not been either so cold or so warm.

The old woman, for close to nine decades of life, had simply been more acquainted with death and the dying than most of her friends, though eleven times in the past she had become quite familiar with giving life. Her sons had been well-raised by their mother, and the business would be in good hands when death came for her.

She turned around and stared directly into the mirror above a sink. The image staring back at her did not frighten her, did not disturb her in the slightest. She had devoted her life to helping others accept the fate of their loved ones.

_I know you, _she thought to the dark god she knew was watching. _You make us fear you. No one can escape you, no one can hide from you. Anywhere, anytime, you can strike us. But without that fear, you are nothing. I am no great hero, no great wizard…but with my work, you are as powerless as the people you take into your grasp. _

She knew what the god would have replied if he could.

So be it, then.


	22. Cornelius In Cutthroat Alley

Morkhul and his carriage set off with the grieving couple on the elaborately carved and decorated PalaceBridge, passing into the Execution District as they did so, turning into Square Street. Square Street branched into Sneak Way and Cutthroat Alley. These two lanes were generally deserted during the day, save for the odd scrounging beggar or family, as they were for most of the rest of the day. As dusk came, however, carts and wagons would appear and begin unloading all number of goods both stolen and bought, from which almost anything in Titan, legal or not, could be purchased. It was the heart of Port Blacksand's black market.

One of the merchants setting up his stall here was a stout, swarthy fellow of medium height and sporting a bushy blonde moustache. Cornelius was well-known in his dealings, being the man who would buy or sell anything if the price was right. He lit a lantern to brighten his displays, even as he noticed the first customers coming down the alley, ready for yet another round of bargains and cons.

Cornelius did not have to wait long before his first customer of the evening came. A battered and scarred dwarf, curiously arrayed in both the battered helmet of a warrior and the apron of an innkeeper, strolled up to Cornelius with three large men in tow.

"Back so soon, Varag?" Cornelius asked. Varag Madhand owned one of the most violent taverns in the city, and was constantly coming back for more furniture.

"Aye, I suppose," Varag muttered. "Kerillim help me, I just had to offer Iron Mule Brandy as my drink of the evening." Cornelius only smiled.

"So, how much will it be?" Cornelius asked.

"Fifteen tables, twenty flagons, three hogsheads, and four benches," Varag muttered in reply.

"That will be…sixty dragons in all," Cornelius tallied. Varag looked as if he would explode.

"That's extortion!" the dwarf thundered.

"Are you going to pay or not?" Cornelius asked unsympathetically. "Or would you rather pay the prices claimed by the Carpenter's Union?"

Varag muttered and reached for his pouch, pouring the money into the merchant's hands. He muttered a round of curses as Cornelius wrote out a letter of credit for him, listing the items he would receive.

"The next shipment comes in two days, at the Fisher Gate," Cornelius told him. "Don't miss it, understand?"

Varag merely cursed and stalked off down the alley, his bouncers in tow. Cornelius only chuckled, and lit a pipe to ward off the chill of the night.

Cornelius's next customer was a flamboyantly dressed man with a waxed moustache not unlike his own, clad in gaudy silks and jewelry. He was surrounded by heavily armed and armored men, well aware of walking the streets of Blacksand at dusk.

"Ah, Maestro," Cornelius greeted his customer with a smirk. "How goes the stage these days?"

"Plebian, although acceptable," the Maestro answered with a sniff. The owner of the Minotaur Inn had converted part of his business into the most popular theater in Port Blacksand. Known only as the Maestro, his airs of refinement were a source of amusement to Cornelius and an insufferable annoyance to everyone else.

"What do you want this time?" Cornelius asked, puffing away at his pipe.

"What any artist wants," the Maestro answered with a frown. "To be able to practice his craft without harassment, to bring some culture to this dreary city without his safe being burgled, to affect a dramatic poise-"

"I get it already!" Cornelius snapped. "What kind of trap, then? Poison needle? Exploding lock? Shooting spikes? Poison on the handle?"

"Nothing of the sort," the Maestro snorted in disgust. "Nay, I merely seek assistance and protection. Camoflauge, the mark of a gentleman, who would not soil himself with something so debase-"

"Five days, and twenty-two dragons," Cornelius said flatly. "One of my men will visit you tommorow, and then we'll craft it appropriately. You come and get it yourself."

The Maestro was aghast.

"Do you suggest that I should stoop so basely as to do my own physical labour? Myself, who possesses the touch of a man of refinement?"

"The same refinement that leads you to produce plays with names like _Seven Maidens for Seven Minotaurs, _or _One Thousand and One Brician Tankards_?" Cornelius asked ironically.

"A commoner like you would never understand!" the Maestro huffed. "If absolutely necessary, some of my guards shall come on my behalf. Now good evening!" the Maestro stamped his foot and walked off in a huff, his bodyguards following him. Cornelius only smirked; the Maestro's productions may not have had the most artistic merit, but they certainly had monetary merit.

Cornelius tapped the ash out of his pipe, before refilling it. Lighting it anew, he blinked as he saw a young female elf walking towards him, paying no heed to the leers and whistles that followed her violet eyes and golden hair. It was as lucky for the men that the elfmaid chose to ignore what they were doing. No one who was male enjoyed being castrated.

"A chill evening, Mariella," Cornelius greeted her, noting the thin leather shift his customer wore. The young elf merely shrugged her shoulders.

"I've dealt with worse," she answered calmly, her musical voice standing out in the arguments and curses of the merchants and their customers.

"What are you in the market for this time? Giant scorpion? Giant centipede? Giant wasp?"

"Giant wasp," she answered. "A certain noble lady has grown weary of her husband's philandering. She wants to deliver the final blow herself. I am being paid only to incapacitate him. I will, of course, maneuver him into the right position," she noted, blinking her wide, innocent eyes repeatedly.

"So it's not through a dagger this time?" Cornelius asked.

"No, in the drink," she answered. "Brandy will serve to disguise the taste. Once I am finished, his wife will take care of the rest." Cornelius followed her gaze to the exotic Arantian grapefruits that were being chopped in two by one merchant, and then to a salted pig that was vigourously cut across the throat.

Cornelius winced involuntarily.

"Perhaps I should thank the gods that I have never crossed a woman," he said dryly. Indeed, if Cornelius had learned one thing in his life, it was never to underestimate a woman.

"A wise course," Mariella nodded. "I will require but one vial for this assignment. Forty-five dragons once again?"

"Same as always," Cornelius replied, puffing on his pipe. "What are you getting for this one?"

"Six hundred," she replied calmly. "Four hundred after expenses and taxes to the leaders of my guild. My prices are a fixed rate, as are yours."

"I'll keep that in mind if the Merchant's Guild finds out about my side-businesses here," Cornelius laughed. He went into the back of his stall to fetch the poison, before emerging with a vial which he handed to Mariella, taking a jingling pouch in exchange. Mariella bowed, before walking off down the alley.

Cornelius watched her go, thinking idly of how childlike she seemed, and how thin and small her voice was. There were many in this depraved city who would take someone like that walking alone at night as an open invitation, only to turn up dead the next morning. Such was the way of the world.

Cornelius puffed away at his pipe for more than an hour, seeing many people examine his merchandise, but none stopping to buy. The shadows lengthened as a grizzled, middle-aged man dressed in the uniform of the City Guard came up to his stall.

"Greetings," the merchant said in response to the guardsman, preferring to let his customers make the first move.

"I hear you deal in lotus," the guard said slowly, his hoarse voice grating on Cornelius's nerves. The merchant shook his head.

"I'm not a florist, if that's what you're thinking," Cornelius replied. "Go see Effie Pipe in Clock Street if you're looking for those sorts of things," he recommended.

"That's not the kind of lotus I mean!" the guard snapped, his eyes flicking back and forth nervously. His hands twitched as he spoke. "I mean…the other kind of lotus."

Cornelius merely raised an eyebrow.

"You'd do better with Hendos, six stalls down," Cornelius replied, jerking with his thumb further down the alley. "He deals more in that stuff-"

"Dammit, dammit, dammit!" the guardsman said quickly to Cornelius. "Hendos got killed two days ago! Ya'aint heard?" Cornelius raised an eyebrow.

"This is the first I've heard of it, yes," he noted. The guardsman snorted and looked from one end of the alley to the other in reply.

"So? You got any lotus or what?" he asked quickly, tripping over his words.

Cornelius sighed. He almost felt sorry for this poor wretch, and couldn't help but feel a grim satisfaction that Hendos had met his end. Another one of his victims probably couldn't wait…

"Thirteen shills," he sighed, as the guardsman fished in his pouch for the money. Taking the coins, Cornelius went into his stall and returned with a sealskin pouch, which he reluctantly handed to the guardsman. The 'lotus' was not derived from that exotic southern flower at all, but was merely Blacksand slang for another, rather more pathetic, herb. He shook his head as the guardsman snatched the pouch out of his hands and ran off down the alley.

Cornelius leaned back against his stall and glanced up at the sky. Lord Moon was appearing in the sky, and had no doubt witnessed the whole thing. He wondered what the moon was thinking-disgust? Pity? Sadness? Compassion? The merchant snorted, then reached into his pocket for some more pipeweed-the moon, and the sun for that matter, probably saw more than enough things to feel all those things at once.


	23. Lord Varek Azzur

The moon saw many things that night, even the ones that one would think remained secret and hidden. Away from Cutthroat Alley, across the Catfish River, there stood the massive fortress of Lord Azzur, ruler of Port Blacksand. The mysterious lord was rarely seen by his citizens, only appearing in public swathed in black robes that revealed only his penetrating black eyes. He would only remove those robes in his private chambers, at those times when he was alone.

Azzur was found this night in the mazelike passages of his home, making his way to a set of stone and marble double doors masterfully crafted with his personal insignia, the heraldry of Port Blacksand, the dragon and sailing ship that inspired fear and hate, or admiration and worship, in so many. He marched wordlessly up to the two armored men guarding the doors, glancing from one to the other. The two men nodded, before they each removed a key from their pockets and unlocked one of the doors, before pulling a hidden lever set into the wall that opened the door without setting off its deadly traps. Azzur passed through wordlessly, before the doors shut behind him.

Slowly and silently, the pirate lord glanced around his richly decorated chambers and all the splendour he had won as a pirate and a ruler. One could only imagine what was going through his mind as he looked at the jewelled mirrors, the crystal tableware, or the valuable furs and paintings that decorated every centimeter of the room. He finally walked across the room to stand before one of the mirrors, removing his thick black robes and fully revealing his visage.

Most people would have screamed had they seen what was underneath the robes. His face was crisscrossed with scars and burns, exposed veins that pulsed with a life of their own. His hair was still thick and black, his eyes glowed with the light of a man in his early thirties, although he was well into his sixties. The youth-retaining magic he had paid so dearly for still held its power, although nothing could or would heal the marks on his face.

They had marked him as a follower of Kukulak, a Khulian name for the god of storms, a twisted aspect of the god worshipped in Allansia as Sukh. He had been so fascinated by the darker side of life, the chaos and evil that seemed so pervasive in the world. Just a child when he snuck into the temple, he had been caught by the priests and forced to take a test, one that would either mean death, or acceptance by the god.

The burns on his face, formed into the ritual symbols of Kukulak, had trapped him, led him into the worship of a foul god. His parents would have reacted with horror to what had happened to their beloved child, had he not fled and been captured by pirates. Forced to join them or be fed to the sharks, he had become a murderer and pirate, with fanatically loyal men and untold wealth, until he had seized control of this city from the aging, enfeebled despot who had preceded him, rebuilding its power but making it more rotten and corrupt than ever.

It was so strange, the way the fates worked. A child's fascination, the type of escapade that most youths engaged in, had set him on a path that had led him to reap dozens of enemies, hundreds of lives and thousands of gold pieces, and brought him to the peak of power in one of the most rotten and corrupt cities on Titan.

It had brought him his love of piracy, of raiding and plundering, of imposing bizarre and erratic taxes on his hapless citizens for his own amusement. He might laugh at seeing them struggle to pay, before rescinding the tax just as they were about to revolt. Azzur might have had pleasure at these moments, to see the struggles of his victims either on the high seas or in the streets of his city, one could not say.

No one, not his aides, not his citizens, not the priests of Kukulak, knew what might have passed through Azzur's mind. He had been so calm and mysterious for so many years, it was almost impossible to tell how he felt when he did something. The same man who might slay everyone aboard a rich merchant ship, or impose a heavy tax on the number of children in a household might also execute a wealthy Blacksander and distribute some of his riches to the city's poor, or give charity and clemency to victims of circumstance such as the wrongly convicted or the Serpent Queen, a woman who had suffered at the hands of the nightmarish Snake Men of the southern deserts.

Azzur stood there for the longest time, simply looking in the mirror as his reflection looked back. At times, one might wonder if even **_he _**knew what was passing through his mind, as twisted and dark as his actions were. He could hear the seas passing through his ears, the clash of steel in the back of his mind, the screams of his victims and the curses of his enemies. It all tended to run together, with the blood of hundreds and the misery of thousands on his hands. He paid little heed to the gods, either of Law or Chaos, and so he was ready for his fate, when it came.

Looking around the room, Azzur was thinking to himself. But about what? What had he spent all his life fighting for? Fabulous riches that could offer him no solace in his darker moments? The rule of a rotting, diseased pit of a city that seemed to spiritually infect almost everyone who lived within its walls? A position that drew people hungry for the power it held, either destroying them in their attempts to reach it or trapping them within its grasp? What was it even worth anymore?

Azzur might have thought that with all his wealth, all his power, he would have found the answers. But all he found were still more questions. Looking at him, it was anyone's guess whether he would ever find the answers.

Or perhaps he just didn't care anymore.

Being a pirate, a murderer and a tyrant had a tendency to do that to a man.


End file.
